y.i««ity  of  crfl«-*. 


~~&^IM3J2.. 


THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

And  Other  People 


BY 


LEON  H.  VINCENT 


[g^^^^ES 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

0je  mmiiitit  pmrjf ,  Cambritise 
1898 


COPYRIGHT,   1898,   BY  LEON  H.  VINCBNT 
ALL  RIGHTS  KSSERVBD 


TO   MY  FATHER 
THE  REV.  B.  T.  VINCENT,  D.D. 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS 

^etiicateti 

WITH  LOVE  AND  ADMIRATION 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bibliotapliotlierpOOvinciala 


Four  of  these  papers  —  the  first  Bibliotaph,  and 
the  notes  on  Keats,  Gautier,  and  Stevenson's  Sf. 
Ives  —  are  reprinted  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly  by 
the  kind  permission  of  the  editor. 

I  am  also  indebted  to  the  literary  editor  of  the 
Sprin^eld  Republican  and  to  the  editors  of  Poet- 
Lore^  respectively,  for  allowing  me  to  reprint  the 
paper  on  Thomas  Hardy  and  the  lecture  on  An 
Elizabethan  Novelist. 


CONTENTS 

PAGS 

THE  BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT   NOT  WHOLLY 

IMAGINARY i 

THE  BIBLIOTAPH  :  HIS  FRIENDS,  SCRAP-BOOKS, 

AND  'BINS' 27 

LAST  WORDS  ON  THE  BIBLIOTAPH         ...  54 

THOMAS   HARDY 80 

A  READING  IN  THE  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  KEATS  113 

AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 137 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  FAIR-MINDED  MAN  165 
CONCERNING  A  RED   WAISTCOAT         ...  192 
STEVENSON:    THE  VAGABOND   AND    THE   PHI- 
LOSOPHER           202 

STEVENSON'S  ST.  IVES 219 


THE  BIBLIOTAPH  AND  OTHER 
PEOPLE 


THE  BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT  NOT 
WHOLLY  IMAGINARY 

A  POPULAR  and  fairly  orthodox  opinion  con- 
cerning book-collectors  is  that  their  vices  are 
many,  their  virtues  of  a  negative  sort,  and  their 
ways  altogether  past  finding  out.  Yet  the  most 
hostile  critic  is  bound  to  admit  that  the  frater- 
nity of  bibliophiles  is  eminently  picturesque.  If 
their  doings  are  inscrutable,  they  are  also  roman- 
tic ;  if  their  vices  are  numerous,  the  heinous- 
ness  of  those  vices  is  mitigated  by  the  fact  that 
it  is  possible  to  sin  humorously.  Regard  him 
how  you  will,  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  col- 
lector give  life  and  color  to  the  pages  of  those 
books  which  treat  of  books.  He  is  amusing 
when  he  is  purely  an  imaginary  creature.  For 
example,  there  was  one  Thomas  Blinton.  Every 
one  who  has  ever  read  the  volume  called  Books 
and  Bookmen  knows  about  Thomas  Blinton. 
He  was  a  man  who  wickedly  adorned  his  vol- 
umes with  morocco  bindings,  while  his  wife 


2         THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT 

*  sighed  in  vain  for  some  old  point  d'Alengon 
lace'  He  was  a  man  who  was  capable  of  bid- 
ding fifteen  pounds  for  a  Foppens  edition  of 
the  essays  of  Montaigne,  though  fifteen  pounds 
happened  to  be  'exactly  the  amount  which 
he  owed  his  plumber  and  gas-fitter,  a  worthy 
man  with  a  large  family.'  From  this  fictitious 
Thomas  Blinton  all  the  way  back  to  Richard 
Heber,  who  was  very  real,  and  who  piled  up 
books  as  other  men  heap  together  vulgar  riches, 
book-collectors  have  been  a  picturesque  folk. 

The  name  of  Heber  suggests  the  thought 
that  all  men  who  buy  books  are  not  bibliophiles. 
He  alone  is  worthy  the  title  who  acquires  his 
volumes  with  something  like  passion.  One  may 
buy  books  like  a  gentleman,  and  that  is  very 
well.  One  may  buy  books  like  a  gentleman  and 
a  scholar,  which  counts  for  something  more. 
But  to  be  truly  of  the  elect  one  must  resemble 
Richard  Heber,  and  buy  books  like  a  gentle- 
man, a  scholar,  and  a  madman. 

You  may  find  an  account  of  Heber  in  an  old 
file  of  The  Gentlematis  Magazine.  He  began 
in  his  youth  by  making  a  library  of  the  classics. 
Then  he  became  interested  in  rare  English 
books,  and  collected  them  con  amove  for  thirty 
years.  He  was  very  rich,  and  he  had  never 
given  hostages  to  fortune  ;  it  was  therefore  pos- 
sible for  him  to  indulge  his  fine  passion  without 
stint.  He  bought  only  the  best  books,  and  he 
bought  them  by  thousands  and  by  tens  of  thou- 


NOT  WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  3 

sands.  He  would  have  held  as  foolishness  that 
saying  from  the  Greek  which  exhorts  one  to 
do  nothing  too  much.  According  to  Heber's 
theory,  it  is  impossible  to  have  too  many  good 
books.  Usually  one  library  is  supposed  to  be 
enough  for  one  man.  Heber  was  satisfied  only 
with  eight  libraries,  and  then  he  was  hardly 
satisfied.  He  had  a  library  in  his  house  at 
Hodnet.  'His  residence  in  Pimlico,  where  he 
died,  was  filled,  like  Magliabecchi's  at  Florence, 
with  books  from  the  top  to  the  bottom ;  every 
chair,  every  table,  every  passage  containing 
piles  of  erudition.'  He  had  a  house  in  York 
Street  which  was  crowded  with  books.  He  had 
a  Hbrary  in  Oxford,  one  at  Paris,  one  at  Ant- 
werp, one  at  Brussels,  and  one  at  Ghent.  The 
most  accurate  estimate  of  his  collections  places 
the  number  at  146,827  volumes.  Heber  is  be- 
lieved to  have  spent  half  a  million  dollars  for 
books.  After  his  death  the  collections  were  dis- 
persed. The  catalogue  was  published  in  twelve 
parts,  and  the  sales  lasted  over  three  years. 

Heber  had  a  witty  way  of  explaining  why  he 
possessed  so  many  copies  of  the  same  book. 
When  taxed  with  the  sin  of  buying  duplicates 
he  replied  in  this  manner :  *  Why,  you  see,  sir, 
no  man  can  comfortably  do  without  three  copies 
of  a  book.  One  he  must  have  for  his  show 
copy,  and  he  will  probably  keep  it  at  his  coun- 
try house ;  another  he  will  require  for  his  own 
use  and  reference ;  and  unless  he  is  inclined  to 


4         THE  BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT 

part  with  this,  which  is  very  inconvenient,  or 
risk  the  injury  of  his  best  copy,  he  must  needs 
have  a  third  at  the  service  of  his  friends.' 

In  the  pursuit  of  a  coveted  volume  Heber 
was  indefatigable.  He  was  not  of  those  Syb- 
aritic buyers  who  sit  in  their  offices  while 
agents  and  dealers  do  the  work.  '  On  hearing 
of  a  curious  book  he  has  been  known  to  put 
himself  into  the  mail-coach,  and  travel  three, 
four,  or  five  hundred  miles  to  obtain  it,  fearful 
to  trust  his  commission  to  a  letter.'  He  knew 
the  solid  comfort  to  be  had  in  reading  a  book 
catalogue.  Dealers  were  in  the  habit  of  send- 
ing him  the  advance  sheets  of  their  lists.  He 
ordered  books  from  his  death-bed,  and  for  any- 
thing we  know  to  the  contrary  died  with  a  cata- 
logue in  his  fingers. 

A  life  devoted  to  such  a  passion  is  a  stum- 
bling-block to  the  practical  man,  and  to  the 
Philistine  foolishness.  Yet  you  may  hear  men 
praised  because  up  to  the  day  of  death  they 
were  diligent  in  business,  —  business  which 
added  to  life  nothing  more  significant  than  that 
useful  thing  called  money.  Thoreau  used  to 
say  that  if  a  man  spent  half  his  time  in  the 
woods  for  the  love  of  the  woods  he  was  in  dan- 
ger of  being  looked  upon  as  a  loafer ;  but  if  he 
spent  all  his  time  as  a  speculator,  shearing  off 
those  woods  and  making  Earth  bald  before  her 
time,  he  was  regarded  as  an  upright  and  indus- 
trious citizen. 


NOT  WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  5 

Heber  had  a  genius  for  friendship  as  well  as 
for  gathering  together  choice  books.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  addressed  verses  to  him.  Professor  Por- 
son  wrote  emendations  for  him  in  his  favorite 
copy  of  AthefKEus.  To  him  was  inscribed  Dr. 
Ferrier's  poetical  epistle  on  Bibliomania.  His 
virtues  were  celebrated  by  Dibdin  and  by  Bur- 
ton, In  brief,  the  sketch  of  Heber  in  The 
Gentleman' s  Magazine  for  January,  1834,  con- 
tains a  list  of  forty-six  names,  —  all  men  of  dis- 
tinction by  birth,  learning,  or  genius,  and  all 
men  who  were  proud  to  call  Richard  Heber 
friend.  He  was  a  mighty  hunter  of  books.  He 
was  genial,  scholarly,  generous.  Out-of-door 
men  will  be  pleased  to  know  that  he  was  ac- 
tive physically.  He  was  a  tremendous  walker, 
and  enjoyed  tiring  out  his  bailiff  by  an  all-day 
tramp. 

Of  many  good  things  said  of  him  this  is  one 
of  the  best :  *  The  learned  and  curious,  whether 
rich  or  poor,  have  always  free  access  to  his 
library.'  Thus  was  it  possible  for  Scott  very 
truthfully  to  say  to  Heber,  'Thy  volumes  open 
as  thy  heart.' 

No  life  of  this  Prince  of  Book-Hunters  has 
been  written,  I  believe.  Some  one  with  access 
to  the  material,  and  a  sympathy  with  the  love 
of  books  as  books,  should  write  a  memoir  of 
Heber  the  Magnificent.  It  ought  not  to  be  a 
large  volume,  but  it  might  well  be  about  the 
size  of  Henry  Stevens's  Recollections  of  James 


6         THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A   PORTRAIT 

Lenox.  And  if  it  were  equally  readable  it  were 
a  readable  book  indeed. 

Dibdin  thought  that  Heber's  tastes  were  so 
catholic  as  to  make  it  difficult  to  classify  him 
among  hunters  of  books.  The  implication  is 
that  most  men  can  be  classified.  They  have 
their  specialties.  What  pleases  one  collector 
much  pleases  another  but  little  or  not  at  all. 
Collectors  differ  radically  in  the  attitude  they 
take  with  respect  to  their  volumes.  One  man 
buys  books  to  read,  another  buys  them  to  gloat 
over,  a  third  that  he  may  fortify  them  behind 
glass  doors  and  keep  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
Therefore  have  learned  words  been  devised  to 
make  apparent  the  varieties  of  motive  and  taste. 
These  words  begin  with  biblio ;  you  may  have 
a  biblio  almost  anything. 

Two  interesting  types  of  maniac  are  known 
respectively  as  the  bibliotaph  and  the  biblio- 
clast.  A  biblioclast  is  one  who  indulges  him- 
self in  the  questionable  pleasure  of  mutilating 
books  in  order  more  sumptuously  to  fit  out  a 
particular  volume.  The  disease  is  English  in 
origin,  though  some  of  the  worst  cases  have 
been  observed  in  America.  Clergymen  and 
presidents  of  colleges  have  been  known  to  be 
seized  with  it.  The  victim  becomes  more  or 
less  irresponsible,  and  presently  runs  mad. 
Such  an  one  was  John  Bagford,  of  diabolical 
memory,  who  mutilated  not  less  than  ten  thou- 
sand volumes  to  form  his  vast  collection  of  title- 


NOT   WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  7 

pages.  John  Bagford  died  an  unrepentant  sin- 
ner, lamenting  with  one  of  his  later  breaths 
that  he  could  not  live  long  enough  to  get  hold 
of  a  genuine  Caxton  and  rip  the  initial  page  out 
of  that. 

The  bibliotaph  buries  books ;  not  literally, 
but  sometimes  with  as  much  effect  as  if  he  had 
put  his  books  underground.  There  are  several 
varieties  of  him.  The  dog-in-the-manger  biblio- 
taph is  the  worst ;  he  uses  his  books  but  little 
himself,  and  allows  others  to  use  them  not  at 
all.  On  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  be  a 
bibliotaph  simply  from  inability  to  get  at  his 
books.  He  may  be  homeless,  a  bachelor,  a 
denizen  of  boarding-houses,  a  wanderer  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth.  He  may  keep  his  books 
in  storage  or  accumulate  them  in  the  country, 
against  the  day  when  he  shall  have  a  town 
house  with  proper  library. 

The  most  genial  lover  of  books  who  has 
walked  city  streets  for  many  a  day  was  a  bib- 
liotaph. He  accumulated  books  for  years  in 
the  huge  garret  of  a  farmhouse  standing  upon 
the  outskirts  of  a  Westchester  County  village. 
A  good  relative  '  mothered '  the  books  for  him 
in  his  absence.  When  the  collection  outgrew 
the  garret  it  was  moved  into  a  big  village  store. 
It  was  the  wonder  of  the  place.  The  country 
folk  flattened  their  noses  against  the  panes  and 
tried  to  peer  into  the  gloom  beyond  the  half- 
drawn  shades.     The  neighboring  stores  were 


8         THE  BIBLIOTAPH:   A   PORTRAIT 

in  comparison  miracles  of  business  activity.  On 
one  side  was  a  harness-shop ;  on  the  other  a 
nondescript  estabhshment  at  which  one  might 
buy  anything,  from  sunbonnets  and  corsets  to 
canned  salmon  and  fresh  eggs.  Between  these 
centres  of  vUlage  life  stood  the  silent  tomb  for 
books.  The  stranger  within  the  gates  had  this 
curiosity  pointed  out  to  him  along  with  the  new 
High  School  and  the  Soldiers*  Monument. 

By  shading  one's  eyes  to  keep  away  the  glare 
of  the  light,  it  was  possible  to  make  out  tall 
carved  oaken  cases  with  glass  doors,  which 
lined  the  walls.  They  gave  distinction  to  the 
place.  It  was  not  difficult  to  understand  the 
point  of  view  of  the  dressmaker  from  across 
the  way  who  stepped  over  to  satisfy  her  curios- 
ity concerning  the  stranger,  and  his  concerning 
the  books,  and  who  said  in  a  friendly  manner  as 
she  peered  through  a  rent  in  the  adjoining 
shade,  *  It 's  almost  like  a  cathedral,  ain't  it  ? ' 

To  an  inquiry  about  the  owner  of  the  books 
she  replied  that  he  was  brought  up  in  that 
county;  that  there  were  people  around  there 
who  said  that  he  had  been  an  exhorter  years 
ago;  her  impression  was  that  now  he  was  a 
'political  revivalist,'  if  I  knew  what  that  was. 

The  phrase  seemed  hopeless,  but  light  was 
thrown  upon  it  when,  later,  I  learned  that  this 
man  of  many  buried  books  gave  addresses  upon 
the  responsibilities  of  citizenship,  upon  the 
higher  politics,  and  upon  themes  of  like  char- 


NOT  WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  9 

acter.  They  said  that  he  was  humorous.  The 
farmers  liked  to  hear  him  speak.  But  it  was 
rumored  that  he  went  to  colleges,  too.  The 
dressmaker  thought  that  the  buying  of  so  many 
books  was  '  wicked.'  '  He  goes  from  New  York 
to  Beersheba,  and  from  Chicago  to  Dan,  buy- 
ing books.  Never  reads  'em  because  he  hardly 
ever  comes  here.' 

It  became  possible  to  identify  the  Bibliotaph 
of  the  country  store  with  a  certain  mature 
youth  who  some  time  since  'gave  his  friends 
the  slip,  chose  land-travel  or  seafaring,'  and  has 
not  returned  to  build  the  town  house  with 
proper  library.  They  who  observed  him  closely 
thought  that  he  resembled  Heber  in  certain 
ways.  Perhaps  this  fact  alone  would  justify  an 
attempt  at  a  verbal  portrait.  But  the  additional 
circumstance  that,  in  days  when  people  with 
the  slightest  excuse  therefor  have  themselves 
regularly  photographed,  this  old-fashioned  youth 
refused  to  allow  his  *  likeness '  to  be  taken,  — 
this  circumstance  must  do  what  it  can  to  ex- 
tenuate minuteness  of  detail  in  the  picture,  as 
well  as  over-attention  to  points  of  which  a 
photograph  would  have  taken  no  account. 

You  are  to  conceive  of  a  man  between  thirty- 
eight  and  forty  years  of  age,  big-bodied,  rapidly 
acquiring  that  rotund  shape  which  is  thought 
becoming  to  bishops,  about  six  feet  high  though 
stooping  a  little,  prodigiously  active,  walking 
with  incredible   rapidity,  having  large  limbs, 


10        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT 

large  feet,  large  though  well-shaped  and  very 
white  hands ;  in  short,  a  huge  fellow  physically, 
as  big  of  heart  as  of  body,  and,  in  the  Section- 
ate  thought  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  as  big 
of  intellect  as  of  heart. 

His  head  might  be  described  as  leonine.  It 
was  a  massive  head,  covered  with  a  tremendous 
mane  of  brown  hair.  This  was  never  worn 
long,  but  it  was  so  thick  and  of  such  fine  tex- 
ture that  it  constituted  a  real  beauty.  He  had 
no  conceit  of  it,  being  innocent  of  that  peculiar 
German  type  of  vanity  which  runs  to  hair,  yet 
he  could  not  prevent  people  from  commenting 
on  his  extraordinary  hirsute  adornment.  Their 
occasional  remarks  excited  his  mirth.  If  they 
spoke  of  it  again,  he  would  protest.  Once, 
among  a  small  party  of  his  closest  friends,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  subject  of  hair, 
and  then  upon  the  beauty  of  his  hair ;  where- 
upon he  cried  out,  *  I  am  embarrassed  by  this 
unnecessary  display  of  interest  in  my  Samso- 
nian  assertiveness.' 

He  loved  to  tease  certain  of  his  acquaintances 
who,  though  younger  than  himself,  were  rapidly 
losing  their  natural  head-covering.  He  prod- 
ded them  with  ingeniously  worded  reflections 
upon  their  unhappy  condition.  He  would  take 
as  a  motto  Erasmus's  unkind  salutation,  *  Bene 
sit  tibi  cum  tuo  calvitio,'  and  multiply  amusing 
variations  upon  it.  He  delighted  in  sending 
them  prescriptions  and  advertisements  clipped 


NOT  WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  II 

from  newspapers  and  medical  journals.  He 
quoted  at  them  the  remark  of  a  pale,  bald, 
blond  young  literary  aspirant,  who,  seeing  him, 
the  Bibliotaph,  passing  by,  exclaimed  audibly 
and  almost  passionately,  *  Oh,  I  perfectly  adore 
hair  ! ' 

Of  his  clothes  it  might  be  said  that  he  did 
not  wear  them,  but  rather  dwelt  at  large  in 
them.  They  were  made  by  high-priced  tailors 
and  were  fashionably  cut,  but  he  lived  in  them 
so  violently  —  that  is,  traveled  so  much,  walked 
so  much,  sat  so  long  and  so  hard,  gestured  so 
earnestly,  and  carried  in  his  many  pockets  such 
an  extraordinary  collection  of  notebooks,  indeli- 
ble pencils,  card-cases,  stamp-boxes,  penknives, 
gold  toothpicks,  thermometers,  and  what  not  — 
that  within  twenty-four  hours  after  he  had 
donned  new  clothes  all  the  artistic  merits  of  the 
garments  were  obliterated ;  they  were,  from 
every  point  of  view,  hopelessly  degenerate. 

He  was  a  scrupulously  clean  man,  but  there 
was  a  kind  of  civilized  wildness  in  his  appear- 
ance which  astonished  people ;  and  in  perverse 
moments  he  liked  to  terrify  those  who  knew 
him  but  little  by  affirming  that  he  was  a  near 
relative  of  Christopher  Smart,  and  then  ex- 
plaining in  mirth-provoking  phrases  that  one  of 
the  arguments  used  for  proving  Smart's  in- 
sanity was  that  he  did  not  love  clean  linen. 

His  appetite  was  large,  as  became  a  large  and 
active  person.     He  was  a  very  valiant  trencher- 


12        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT 

man ;  and  yet  he  could  not  have  been  said  to 
love  eating  for  eating's  sake.  He  ate  when  he 
was  hungry,  and  found  no  difficulty  in  being 
hungry  three  times  a  day.  He  should  have 
been  an  Englishman,  for  he  enjoyed  a  late  sup- 
per. In  the  proper  season  this  consisted  of 
a  bountiful  serving  of  tomatoes,  cucumbers, 
onions,  with  a  glass  of  lemonade.  As  a  variant 
upon  the  beverage  he  took  milk.  He  was  the 
only  man  I  have  known,  whether  book-hunter 
or  layman,  who  could  sleep  peacefully  upon  a 
supper  of  cucumbers  and  milk. 

There  is  probably  no  occult  relation  between 
first  editions  and  onions.  The  Bibliotaph  was 
mightily  pleased  with  both  :  the  one,  he  said, 
appealed  to  him  aesthetically,  the  other  dietet- 
ically.  He  remarked  of  some  particularly  large 
Spanish  onions  that  there  was  *a  globular 
wholesomeness  about  them  which  was  very 
gratifying ; '  and  after  eating  one  he  observed 
expansively  that  he  felt  *  as  if  he  had  swallowed 
the  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof.'  His  easy, 
good-humored  exaggerations  and  his  odd  com- 
ments upon  the  viands  made  him  a  pleasant 
table  companion  :  as  when  he  described  a  Par- 
ker House  Sultana  Roll  by  saying  that  'it 
looked  like  the  sanguinary  output  of  the  whole 
Crimean  war.' 

High-priced  restaurants  did  not  please  him 
as  well  as  humbler  and  less  obtrusive  places. 
But  it  was  all  one,  —  Delmonico's,  the  Bellevue, 


NOT  WHOLLY  IMAGINARY  13 

a  stool  in  the  Twelfth  Street  Market,  or  a 
German  caf6  on  Van  Buren  Street.  The  hu- 
mors of  certain  eating-houses  gave  him  infinite 
delight.  He  went  frequently  to  the  Diner's 
Own  Home,  the  proprietor  of  which,  being 
both  cook  and  Christian,  had  hit  upon  the 
novel  plan  of  giving  Scriptural  advice  and  prac- 
tical suggestions  by  placards  on  the  walls.  The 
Bibliotaph  enjoyed  this  juxtaposition  of  signs: 
the  first  read,  *  The  very  God  of  peace  sanctify 
you  wholly ; '  the  second,  *  Look  out  for  your 
Hat  and  Coat.' 

The  Bibliotaph  had  no  home,  and  was  re- 
puted to  live  in  his  post-office  box.  He  con- 
tributed to  the  support  of  at  least  three  clubs, 
but  was  very  little  seen  at  any  one  of  them. 
He  enjoyed  the  large  cities,  and  was  contented 
in  whichever  one  he  happened  to  find  himself. 
He  was  emphatically  a  city  man,  but  what  city 
was  of  less  import.  He  knew  them  all,  and 
was  happy  in  each.  He  had  his  favorite  hotel, 
his  favorite  bath,  his  work,  bushels  of  news- 
papers and  periodicals,  friends  who  rejoiced  in 
his  coming  as  children  in  the  near  advent  of 
Christmas,  and  finally  book-shops  in  which  to 
browse  at  his  pleasure.  It  was  interesting  to 
hear  him  talk  about  city  life.  One  of  his  quaint 
mannerisms  consisted  in  modifying  a  well-, 
known  quotation  to  suit  his  conversational 
needs.  'Why,  sir,'  he  would  remark,  'Fleet 
Street  has  a  very  animated  appearance,  but  I 


14        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT 

think  the  full  tide  of  human  existence  is  at  the 
corner  of  Madison  and  State.' 

His  knowledge  of  cities  was  both  extensive 
and  peculiar.  I  have  heard  him  name  in  order 
all  the  hotels  on  Broadway,  beginning  at  the 
lower  end  and  coming  up  as  far  as  hotels  exist, 
branching  off  upon  the  parallel  and  cross 
streets  where  there  were  noted  caravansaries, 
and  connecting  every  name  with  an  event  of 
importance,  or  with  the  life  and  fortunes  of 
some  noted  man  who  had  been  guest  at  that 
particular  inn.  This  was  knowledge  more  be- 
coming in  a  guide,  perhaps,  but  it  will  illustrate 
the  encyclopaedic  fullness  of  his  miscellaneous 
information. 

As  was  natural  and  becoming  in  a  man  bom 
within  forty  miles  of  the  metropolis,  he  liked 
best  the  large  cities  of  the  East,  and  was  least 
content  in  small  Western  cities.  But  this  was 
the  outcome  of  no  illiberal  prejudice,  and  there 
was  a  quizzical  smile  upon  his  lips  and  a  teas- 
ing look  in  his  eyes  when  he  bantered  a  West- 
erner. *  A  man,'  he  would  sometimes  say, 
•may  come  by  the  mystery  of  childbirth  into 
Omaha  or  Kansas  City  and  be  content,  but  he 
can't  come  by  Boston,  New  York,  or  Philadel- 
phia.' Then,  a  moment  later,  paraphrasing  his 
remark,  he  would  add,  *To  go  to  Omaha  or 
Kansas  City  by  way  of  New  York  and  Phila- 
delphia is  like  being  translated  heavenward 
with  such  violence  that  one  passes  through  — 
into  a  less  comfortable  region  ! ' 


NOT   WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  15 

Strange  to  say,  the  conversation  of  this  most 
omnivorous  of  book-collectors  was  less  of  books 
than  of  men.  True,  he  was  deeply  versed  in 
bibliographical  details  and  dangerously  accurate 
in  his  talk  about  them,  but,  after  all,  the  per- 
sonality back  of  the  book  was  the  supremely 
interesting  thing.  He  abounded  in  anecdote, 
and  could  describe  graphically  the  men  he  had 
met,  the  orators  he  had  heard,  the  occasions  of 
importance  where  he  had  been  an  interested 
spectator.  His  conversation  was  delightfully 
fresh  and  racy  because  of  the  vividness  of  the 
original  impressions,  the  unusual  force  of  the 
ideas  which  were  the  copies  of  these  impres- 
sions, and  the  fine  artistic  sense  which  enabled 
him  to  determine  at  once  what  points  should 
be  omitted,  and  what  words  should  be  used 
most  fittingly  to  express  the  ideas  retained. 

He  had  no  pride  in  his  conversational  power. 
He  was  always  modest,  but  never  diffident.  I 
have  seen  him  sit,  a  respectful  listener,  abso- 
lutely silent,  while  some  ordinary  chatterer  held 
the  company's  attention  for  an  hour.  Many 
good  talkers  are  unhappy  unless  they  have  the 
privilege  of  exercising  their  gifts.  Not  so  he. 
Sometimes  he  had  almost  to  be  compelled  to 
begin.  On  such  occasions  one  of  his  intimates 
was  wont  to  quote  from  Boswell :  *  Leave  him 
to  me,  sir ;  I  '11  make  him  rear.' 

The  superficial  parts  of  his  talk  were  more 
easily  retained.    In  mere  banter,  good-humored 


l6        THE  BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT 

give-and-take,  that  froth  and  bubble  of  conver- 
sational intercourse,  he  was  delightful.  His 
hostess,  the  wife  of  a  well-known  comedian, 
apologized  to  him  for  having  to  move  him  out 
of  the  large  guest-chamber  into  another  one, 
smaller  and  higher  up, — this  because  of  an 
unexpected  accession  of  visitors.  He  replied 
that  it  did  not  incommode  him ;  and  as  for 
being  up  another  flight  of  stairs,  '  it  was  a  com- 
fort to  him  to  know  that  when  he  was  in  a 
state  of  somnolent  helplessness  he  was  as  near 
heaven  as  it  was  possible  to  get  in  an  actor's 
house.'  The  same  lady  was  taking  him  roundly 
to  task  on  some  minor  point  in  which  he  had 
quite  justly  offended  her ;  whereupon  he  turned 
to  her  husband  and  said,  'Jane  worships  but 
little  at  the  shrine  of  politeness  because  so 
much  of  her  time  is  mortgaged  to  the  shrine  of 
truth.' 

When  asked  to  suggest  an  appropriate  and 
brief  cablegram  to  be  sent  to  a  gentleman  who 
on  the  following  day  would  become  sixty  years 
of  age,  and  who  had  taken  full  measure  of  life's 
joys,  he  responded,  *  Send  him  this :  "  You 
don't  look  it,  but  you  've  lived  like  it."  ' 

His  skill  in  witty  retort  often  expressed  itself 
by  accepting  a  verbal  attack  as  justified,  and 
elaborating  it  in  a  way  to  throw  into  shadow 
the  assault  of  the  critic.  At  a  small  and  famil- 
iar supper  of  bookish  men,  when  there  was 
general  dissatisfaction  over  an   expensive  but 


NOT   WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  17 

ill-made  salad,  he  alone  ate  with  apparent  relish. 
The  host,  who  was  of  like  mind  with  his  guests, 
said,  *  The  Bibliotaph  does  n't  care  for  the  qual- 
ity of  his  food,  if  it  has  filling  power.'  To 
which  he  at  once  responded,  'You  merely 
imply  that  I  am  like  a  robin :  I  eat  cherries 
when  I  may,  and  worms  when  I  must.' 

His  inscriptions  in  books  given  to  his  friends 
were  often  singularly  happy.  He  presented  a 
copy  of  Lowell's  Letters  to  a  gentleman  and 
his  wife.  The  first  volume  was  inscribed  to 
the  husband  as  follows :  — 

*  To  Mr. ,  who  is  to  the  owner  of 

the  second  volume  of  these  Letters  what  this 
volume  is  to  that :  so  delightful  as  to  make  one 
glad  that  there 's  another  equally  as  good,  if  not 
better.' 

In  volume  two  was  the  inscription  to  the 
wife,  worded  in  this  manner :  — 

*  To  Mrs. ,  without  whom  the  owner 

of  the  first  volume  of  these  Letters  would  be  as 
that  first  volume  without  this  one :  interesting, 
but  incomplete.' 

Perhaps  this  will  illustrate  his  quickness  to 
seize  upon  ever  so  minute  an  occasion  for  the 
exercise  of  his  humor.  A  young  woman  whom 
he  admired,  being  brought  up  among  brothers, 
had  received  the  nickname,  half  affectionately 
and  half  patronizingly  bestowed,  of  'the  Kid.' 
Among  her  holiday  gifts  for  a  certain  year  was 
a  book  from   the  Bibliotaph,  a  copy  of  Old- 


i8        THE  BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT 

Fashioned  Roses,  with  this  dedication  :  *  To  a 
Kid,  had  Abraham  possessed  which,  Isaac  had 
been  the  burnt-offering.' 

It  is  as  a  buyer  and  burier  of  books  that  the 
subject  of  this  paper  showed  himself  in  most 
interesting  hght.  He  said  that  the  time  to 
make  a  Ubrary  was  when  one  was  young.  He 
held  the  foolish  notion  that  a  man  does  not 
purchase  books  after  he  is  fifty ;  I  shall  expect 
to  see  him  ransacking  the  shops  after  he  is 
seventy,  if  he  shall  survive  his  eccentricities  of 
diet  that  long.  He  was  an  omnivorous  buyer, 
picking  up  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands 
upon.  Yet  he  had  a  clearly  defined  motive  for 
the  acquisition  of  every  volume.  However 
absurd  the  purchase  might  seem  to  the  by- 
stander, he,  at  any  rate,  could  have  given  six 
cogent  reasons  why  he  must  have  that  par- 
ticular book. 

He  bought  according  to  the  condition  of  his 
purse  at  a  given  time.  If  he  had  plenty  of 
money,  it  would  be  expensive  publications,  like 
those  issued  by  the  Grolier  Club.  If  he  was 
financially  depressed,  he  would  hunt  in  the  out- 
of-door  shelves  of  well-known  Philadelphia  book- 
shops. It  was  marvelous  to  see  what  things, 
new  and  old,  he  was  able  to  extract  from  a  ten- 
cent  alcove.  Part  of  the  secret  lay  in  this  idea : 
to  be  a  good  book-hunter  one  must  not  be  too 
dainty ;  one  must  not  be  afraid  of  soiling  one's 
hands.     He  who  observes  the  clouds  shall  not 


NOT   WHOLLY   IMAGINARY  19 

reap,  and  he  who  thinks  of  his  cuffs  is  likely  to 
lose  many  a  bookish  treasure.  Our  Bibliotaph 
generally  parted  company  with  his  cuffs  when 
he  began  hunting  for  books.  How  many  times 
have  I  seen  those  cuffs  with  the  patent  fasten- 
ers sticking  up  in  the  air,  as  if  reaching  out 
helplessly  for  their  owner ;  the  owner  in  the 
mean  time  standing  high  upon  a  ladder  which 
creaked  under  his  weight,  humming  to  himself 
as  he  industriously  examined  every  volume 
within  reach.  This  ability  to  live  without  cuffs 
made  him  prone  to  reject  altogether  that  ortho- 
dox bit  of  finish  to  a  toilet.  I  have  known  him 
to  spend  an  entire  day  in  New  York  between 
club,  shops,  and  restaurant,  with  one  cuff  on, 
and  the  other  cuff  —  its  owner  knew  not  where. 
He  differed  from  Heber  in  that  he  was  not 
*a  classical  scholar  of  the  old  school,'  but  there 
were  many  points  in  which  he  resembled  the 
famous  English  collector.  Heber  would  have 
acknowledged  him  as  a  son  if  only  for  his 
energy,  his  unquenchable  enthusiasm,  and  the 
exactness  of  his  knowledge  concerning  the 
books  which  he  pretended  to  know  at  all.  For 
not  alone  is  it  necessary  that  a  collector  should 
know  precisely  what  book  he  wants  ;  it  is  even 
more  important  that  he  should  be  able  to  know 
a  book  as  the  book  he  wants  when  he  sees  it. 
It  is  a  lamentable  thing  to  have  fired  in  the 
dark,  and  then  discover  that  you  have  shot  a 
wandering  mule,  and  not  the  noble  game  you 


20        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A   PORTRAIT 

were  in  pursuit  of.  One  cannot  take  his  ref- 
erence library  with  him  to  the  shops.  The 
tests,  the  criteria,  must  be  carried  in  the  head. 
The  last  and  most  inappropriate  moment  for 
getting  up  bibliographical  lore  is  that  moment 
when  the  pressing  question  is,  to  buy  or  not  to 
buy.  Master  Slender,  in  the  play,  learned  the 
difficulties  which  beset  a  man  whose  knowledge 
is  in  a  book,  and  whose  book  is  at  home  upon  a 
shelf.  It  is  possible  to  sympathize  with  him 
when  he  exclaims,  *  I  had  rather  than  forty 
shillings  I  had  my  Book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets 
here ! '  In  making  love  there  are  other  re- 
sources ;  all  wooers  are  not  as  ill  equipped  as 
Slender  was.  But  in  hunting  rare  books  the 
time  will  be  sure  to  come  when  a  man  may 
well  cry,  *  I  had  rather  than  forty  dollars  I  had 
my  list  of  first  editions  with  me  ! ' 

The  Bibliotaph  carried  much  accurate  infor- 
mation in  his  head,  but  he  never  traveled  with- 
out a  thesaurus  in  his  valise.  It  was  a  small 
volume  containing  printed  lists  of  the  first 
editions  of  rare  books.  The  volume  was  inter- 
leaved; the  leaves  were  crowded  with  manu- 
script notes.  An  appendix  contained  a  hundred 
and  more  autograph  letters  from  living  authors, 
correcting,  supplementing,  or  approving  the 
printed  bibliographies.  Even  these  authors' 
own  lists  were  accurately  corrected.  They 
needed  it  in  not  a  few  instances.  For  it  is  a 
wise  author  who  knows  his  own  first  edition. 


NOT  WHOLLY  IMAGINARY  2i 

Men  may  write  remarkable  books,  and  under- 
stand but  little  the  virtues  of  their  books  from 
the  collector's  point  of  view.  Men  are  seldom 
clever  in  more  ways  than  one.  Z.  Jackson  was 
a  practical  printer,  and  his  knowledge  as  a 
printer  enabled  him  to  correct  sundry  errors  in 
the  first  folio  of  Shakespeare.  But  Z.  Jackson, 
as  the  Rev.  George  Dawson  observes,  'ven- 
tured beyond  the  composing-case,  and,  having 
corrected  blunders  made  by  the  printers,  cor- 
rected excellencies  made  by  the  poet.' 

It  was  amusing  to  discover,  by  means  of 
these  autograph  letters,  how  seldom  a  good 
author  was  an  equally  good  bibliographer.  And 
this  is  as  it  should  be.  The  author's  business 
is,  not  to  take  account  of  first  editions,  but  to 
make  books  of  such  virtue  that  bibliomaniacs 
shall  be  eager  to  possess  the  first  editions 
thereof.  It  is  proverbial  that  a  poet  is  able  to 
show  a  farmer  things  new  to  him  about  his  own 
farm.  Turn  a  bibliographer  loose  upon  a  poet's 
works,  and  he  will  amaze  the  poet  with  an 
account  of  his  own  doings.  The  poet  will 
straightway  discover  that  while  he  supposed 
himself  to  be  making  'mere  literature'  he  was 
in  reality  contributing  to  an  elaborate  and  exact 
science. 

The  Bibliotaph  was  not  a  blind  enthusiast  on 
the  subject  of  first  editions.  He  was  one  of 
the  few  men  who  understood  the  exceeding 
great  virtues  of  second  editions.     He  declared 


22        THE  BIBLIOTAPH:  A  PORTRAIT 

that  a  man  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  secure 
a  second  edition  of  Henry  Crabb  Robinson's 
Diary  was  in  better  case  than  he  who  had 
bothered  himself  to  obtain  a  first.  When  it 
fell  in  with  his  mood  to  argue  against  that 
which  he  himself  most  affected,  he  would  quote 
the  chUdish  bit  of  doggerel  beginning  '  The 
first  the  worst,  the  second  the  same,'  and  then 
grow  eloquent  over  the  dainty  Templeman  Haz- 
litts  which  are  chiefly  third  editions.  He 
thought  it  absurd  to  worry  over  a  first  issue  of 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution  if  it  were  possible 
to  buy  at  moderate  price  a  copy  of  the  third 
edition,  which  is  a  well-nigh  perfect  book, 
'good  to  the  touch  and  grateful  to  the  eye.' 
But  this  lover  of  books  grew  fierce  in  his  spe- 
cial mania  if  you  hinted  that  it  was  also  foolish 
to  spend  a  large  sum  on  an  editio  princeps  of 
Paradise  Lost  or  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  There 
are  certain  authors  concerning  the  desirability 
of  whose  first  editions  it  must  not  be  disputed. 
The  singular  readiness  with  which  bookish 
treasures  fell  into  his  way  astonished  less  for- 
tunate buyers.  Rare  Stevensons  dropped  into 
his  hand  like  ripe  fruit  from  a  tree.  The  most 
inaccessible  of  pamphlets  fawned  upon  him, 
begging  to  be  purchased,  just  as  the  succulent 
little  roast  pigs  in  The  New  Paul  and  Virginia 
run  about  with  knives  and  forks  in  their  sides 
pleading  to  be  eaten.  The  Bibliotaph  said  he 
did  not  despair  of  buying  Poe's  Tamerlane  for 


NOT  WHOLLY  IMAGINARY  23 

twenty-five  cents  one  of  these  days ;  and  that 
a  rarity  he  was  sure  to  get  sooner  or  later  was 
a  copy  of  that  English  newspaper  which  an- 
nounced Shelley's  death  under  the  caption  Now 
he  Knows  whether  there  is  a  Hell  or  Not. 

He  unconsciously  followed  Heber  in  that  he 
disliked  large-paper  copies.  Heber  would  none 
of  them  because  they  took  up  too  much  room ; 
their  ample  borders  encroached  upon  the  rights 
of  other  books.  Heber  objected  to  this  as 
Prosper  M6rim6e  objected  to  the  gigantic  Eng- 
lish hoopskirts  of  1865, — there  was  space  on 
Regent  Street  for  but  one  woman  at  a  time. 

Original  as  the  Bibliotaph  was  in  appearance, 
manners,  habits,  he  was  less  striking  in  what 
he  did  than  in  what  he  said.  It  is  a  pity  that 
no  record  of  his  talk  exists.  It  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  there  is  no  such  record,  for  his  habits 
of  wandering  precluded  the  possibility  of  his 
making  a  permanent  impression.  By  the  time 
people  had  fully  awakened  to  the  significance 
of  his  presence  among  them  he  was  gone.  So 
there  grew  up  a  legend  concerning  him,  but  no 
true  biography.  He  was  like  a  comet,  very 
shaggy  and  very  brilliant,  but  he  stayed  so 
brief  a  time  in  a  place  that  it  was  impossible 
for  one  man  to  give  either  the  days  or  the 
thought  to  the  reproduction  of  his  more  serious 
and  considered  words.  A  greater  difficulty  was 
involved  in  the  fact  that  the  Bibliotaph  had 
many  socii,  but  no  fidus  Achates.     Moreover, 


24        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT 

Achates,  in  this  instance,  would  have  needed 
the  reportorial  powers  of  a  James  Boswell  that 
he  might  properly  interpret  genius  to  the  public. 

This  particular  genius  illustrated  the  mis- 
fortune of  having  too  great  facility  in  establish- 
ing those  relations  which  lie  midway  between 
acquaintance  and  friendship.  To  put  the  matter 
in  the  form  of  a  paradox,  he  had  so  many 
friends  that  he  had  no  friend.  Perhaps  this  is 
unjust,  but  friendship  has  a  touch  of  jealousy 
and  exclusiveness  in  it.  He  was  too  large- 
natured  to  say  to  one  of  his  admirers,  'Thou 
shalt  have  no  other  gods  save  myself ; '  but 
there  were  those  among  the  admirers  who  were 
quite  prepared  to  say  to  him,  *  We  prefer  that 
thou  shalt  have  no  other  worshipers  in  addi- 
tion to  us.' 

People  wondered  that  he  seemed  to  have  no 
care  for  a  conventional  home  life.  He  was 
taxed  with  want  of  sympathy  with  what  makes 
even  a  humble  home  a  centre  of  light  and  hap- 
piness. He  denied  it,  and  said  to  his  accusers, 
*  Can  you  not  understand  that  after  a  stay  in 
your  home  I  go  away  with  much  the  feeling 
that  must  possess  a  lusty  young  calf  when  his 
well-equipped  mother  tells  him  that  henceforth 
he  must  find  means  of  sustenance  elsewhere  t ' 

He  professed  to  have  been  once  in  love,  but 
no  one  believed  it.  He  used  to  say  that  his 
most  remarkable  experience  as  a  bachelor  was 
in  noting  the   uniformity  with  which  eligible 


NOT  WHOLLY  IMAGINARY  25 

young  women  passed  him  by  on  the  other  side 
of  the  way.  And  when  a  married  friend  offered 
condolence,  with  that  sleek  complacency  of 
manner  noteworthy  in  men  who  are  conscious 
of  being  mated  for  life  better  than  they  deserve, 
the  Bibliotaph  said,  with  an  admiring  glance  at 
the  wife,  'Your  sympathy  is  supererogatory, 
sir,  for  I  fully  expect  to  become  your  residuary 
legatee.' 

It  is  most  pleasing  to  think  of  this  unique 
man  *  buffeting  his  books '  in  one  of  those  tem- 
porary libraries  which  formed  about  him  when- 
ever he  stopped  four  or  five  weeks  in  a  place. 
The  shops  were  rifled  of  not  a  few  of  their 
choicest  possessions,  and  the  spoils  carried  off 
to  his  room.  It  was  a  joy  to  see  him  display 
his  treasures,  a  delight  to  hear  him  talk  of 
them.  He  would  disarm  criticism  with  respect 
to  the  more  eccentric  purchases  by  saying, 
'  You  would  n't  approve  of  this,  but  /  thought 
it  was  curious,*  —  and  then  a  torrent  of  facts, 
criticisms,  quotations,  all  bearing  upon  the  par- 
ticular volume  which  you  were  supposed  not  to 
like ;  and  so  on,  hour  after  hour.  There  was 
no  limit  save  that  imposed  by  the  receptive 
capacity  of  the  guest.  It  reminded  one  of  the 
word  spoken  concerning  a  '  hard  sitter  at  books ' 
of  the  last  century,  that  he  was  a  literary  giant 
'born  to  grapple  with  whole  libraries.'  But  the 
fine  flavor  of  those  hours  spent  in  hearing  him 
discourse  upon  books  and  men  is  not  to  be 


26        THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   A  PORTRAIT 

recovered.  It  is  evanescent,  spectral,  now.  This 
talk  was  like  the  improvisation  of  a  musician 
who  is  profoundly  learned,  but  has  in  him  a 
vein  of  poetry  too.  The  talk  and  the  music 
strongly  appeal  to  robust  minds,  and  at  the  same 
time  do  not  repel  the  sentimentalist. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Bibliotaph 
pleased  every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact. There  were  people  whom  his  intellectual 
potency  affected  in  a  disagreeable  way.  They 
accused  him  of  applying  great  mental  force  to 
inconsidered  trifles.  They  said  it  was  a  misfor- 
tune that  so  much  talent  was  going  to  waste. 
But  there  is  no  task  so  easy  as  criticising  an 
able  man's  employment  of  his  gifts. 


THE   BIBLIOTAPH:   HIS   FRIENDS, 
SCRAP-BOOKS,   AND    'BINS' 

To  arrive  at  a  high  degree  of  pleasure  in 
collecting  a  library,  one  must  travel.  The  Bib- 
liotaph  regularly  traveled  in  search  of  his  vol- 
umes. His  theory  was  that  the  collector  must 
go  to  the  book,  not  wait  for  the  book  to  come 
to  him.  No  reputable  sportsman,  he  said,  would 
wish  the  game  brought  alive  to  his  back-yard 
for  him  to  kill.  Half  the  pleasure  was  in  track- 
ing the  quarry  to  its  hiding-place.  He  himself 
ordered  but  seldom  from  catalogues,  and  went 
regularly  to  and  fro  among  the  dealers  in  books, 
seeking  the  volume  which  his  heart  desired. 
He  enjoyed  those  shops  where  the  book-seller 
kept  open  house,  where  the  stock  was  large  and 
surprises  were  common,  where  the  proprietor 
was  prodigiously  well-informed  on  some  points 
and  correspondingly  ill-informed  on  others.  He 
bought  freely,  never  disputed  a  price,  and  laid 
down  his  cash  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  be- 
lieves that  unspent  money  is  the  root  of  all 
evil. 

These  travels  brought  about  three  results: 


28  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

the  making  of  friends,  the  compilation  of  scrap- 
books,  and  the  establishment  of  *  bins.'  Before 
speaking  of  any  one  of  these  points,  a  word  on 
the  satisfactions  of  bibliographical  touring. 

In  every  town  of  considerable  size,  and  in 
many  towns  of  inconsiderable  size,  are  book- 
shops. It  is  a  poor  shop  which  does  not  con- 
tain at  least  one  good  book.  This  book  bides 
its  time,  and  usually  outstays  its  welcome.  But 
its  fate  is  about  its  neck.  Somewhere  there  is 
a  collector  to  whom  that  book  is  precious.  They 
are  made  for  one  another,  the  collector  and  the 
book ;  and  it  is  astonishing  how  infrequently 
they  miss  of  realizing  their  mutual  happiness. 
The  book-seller  is  a  marriage-broker  for  un- 
wedded  books.  His  business  is  to  find  them 
homes,  and  take  a  fee  for  so  doing.  Sugarman 
the  Shadchan  was  not  more  zealous  than  is 
your  vendor  of  rare  books. 

Now,  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  most  de- 
sirable of  bookish  treasures  are  often  found 
where  one  would  be  least  likely  to  seek  them. 
Montana  is  a  great  State,  nevertheless  one  does 
not  think  of  going  to  Montana  for  early  editions 
of  Shakespeare.  Let  the  book-hunter  inwardly 
digest  the  following  plain  tale  of  a  clergyman 
and  a  book  of  plays. 

There  is  a  certain  collector  who  is  sometimes 
called  'The  Bishop.'  He  is  not  a  bishop,  but 
he  may  be  so  designated ;  coming  events  have 
been  known  to  cast  conspicuous   shadows  in 


FRIENDS  AND  SCRAP-BOOKS  29 

the  likeness  of  mitre  and  crosier.  The  Bishop 
heard  of  a  man  in  Montana  who  had  an  old 
book  of  plays  with  an  autograph  of  William 
Shakespeare  pasted  in  it.  Being  a  wise  ecclesi- 
astic, he  did  not  exclaim  *  Tush '  and  *  Fie,'  but 
proceeded  at  once  to  go  book-hunting  in  Mon- 
tana. He  went  by  proxy,  if  not  in  person  ;  the 
journey  is  long.  In  due  time  the  owner  of  the 
volume  was  found  and  the  book  was  placed  in 
the  Bishop's  hands  for  inspection.  He  tore  off 
the  wrappers,  and  lo!  it  was  a  Fourth  Folio 
of  Shakespeare  excellently  well  preserved,  and 
with  what  appeared  to  be  the  great  dramatist's 
signature  written  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  pasted 
inside  the  front  cover.  The  problem  of  the 
genuineness  of  that  autograph  does  not  con- 
cern us.  The  great  fact  is  that  a  Shakespeare 
folio  turned  up  in  Montana.  Now  when  he 
hears  some  one  express  desire  for  a  copy  of 
Greene's  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  or  any  other  rare 
book  of  Elizabeth's  time,  the  Bishop's  thoughts 
fly  toward  the  setting  sun.  Then  he  smiles  a 
notable  kind  of  smile,  and  says,  *  If  I  could  get 
away  I  'd  run  out  to  Montana  and  try  to  pick 
up  a  copy  for  you.' 

There  is  a  certain  gentleman  who  loves  the 
literature  of  Queen  Anne's  reign.  He  lives 
with  Whigs  and  Tories,  vibrates  between  cof- 
fee-house and  tea-table.  He  annoys  his  daugh- 
ter by  sometimes  calling  her  'Belinda,'  and 
astonishes  his  wife'  with  his  mock-heroic  apos- 


30  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

trophes  to  her  hood  and  patches.  He  reads  his 
Spectator  at  breakfast  while  other  people  bat- 
ten upon  newspapers  only  three  hours  old.  He 
smiles  over  the  love-letters  of  Richard  Steele, 
and  reverences  the  name  and  the  writings  of 
Joseph  Addison.  Indeed,  his  devotion  to  Addi- 
son is  so  radical  that  he  has  actually  been  guilty 
of  reading  The  Campaign  and  the  Dialogue  on 
Medals.  This  gentleman  hunted  books  one  day 
and  was  not  successful.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
on  this  particular  afternoon  the  world  was 
stuffed  with  Allison's  histories  of  Europe,  and 
Jeffrey's  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view. His  heart  was  filled  with  bitterness  and 
his  nostrils  with  dust.  Books  which  looked  in- 
viting turned  out  to  be  twenty-second  editions. 
Of  fifty  things  upon  his  list  not  one  came  to 
light.  But  it  was  predestined  that  he  should 
not  go  sorrowing  to  his  home.  He  pulled  out 
from  a  bottom  shelf  two  musty  octavo  volumes 
bound  in  dark  brown  leather,  and  each  securely 
tied  with  a  string;  for  the  covers  had  been 
broken  from  the  backs.  The  titles  were  invisi- 
ble, the  contents  a  mystery.  The  gentleman 
held  the  unpromising  objects  in  his  hand  and 
meditated  upon  them.  They  might  be  a  treatise 
on  conic  sections,  or  a  Latin  Grammar,  and 
again  they  might  be  a  Book.  He  untied  the 
string  and  opened  one  of  the  volumes.  Was  it 
a  breath  of  summer  air  from  Isis  that  swept 
out  of  those  pages,  which  were  as  white  as  snow 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  31 

in  spite  of  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  centuries  ? 
He  read  the  title,  Musarum  Anglicanarum 
Analecta,  The  date  was  1699.  He  turned 
to  the  table  of  contents,  and  his  heart  gave 
a  contented  throb.  There  was  the  name  he 
wished  to  see,  J.  Addison,  Magd.  Coll.  The 
name  occurred  eight  times.  The  dejected  col- 
lector had  found  a  clean  and  uncut  copy  of 
those  two  volumes  of  contemporary  Latin  verse 
compiled  by  Joseph  Addison,  when  he  was  a 
young  man  at  Oxford,  and  printed  at  the  Shel- 
donian  Theatre.  Addison  contributed  eight 
poems  to  the  second  volume.  The  bookseller 
was  willing  to  take  seventy-five  cents  for  the 
set,  and  told  the  gentleman  as  he  did  up  the 
package  that  he  was  a  comfort  to  the  trade. 

That  night  the  gentleman  read  The  Battle  of 
the  Pigmies  and  the  Cranes,  while  his  wife  read 
the  evening  edition  of  the  Lurid  Paragraph. 
Now  he  says  to  his  friends,  'Hunt  books  in 
the  most  unpromising  places,  but  make  a  thor- 
ough search.  You  may  not  discover  a  Koh-i- 
noor,  but  you  will  be  pretty  sure  to  run  upon 
some  desirable  little  thing  which  gives  you 
pleasure  and  costs  but  a  trifle.' 

One  effect  of  this  adventure  upon  himself  is 
that  he  cannot  pass  a  volume  which  is  tied  with 
a  string.  He  spends  his  days  and  Saturday 
nights  in  tying  and  untying  books  with  broken 
covers.  Even  the  evidence  of  a  clearly-lettered 
title  upon  the  back  fails  to  satisfy  him.     He  is 


32  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

restless  until  he  has  made  a  thorough  search 
in  the  body  of  the  volume. 

The  Bibliotaph's  own  best  strokes  of  fortune 
were  made  in  out-of-the-way  places.  But  some 
god  was  on  his  side.  For  at  his  approach  the 
bibliographical  desert  blossomed  like  the  rose. 
He  used  to  hunt  books  in  Texas  at  one  period 
in  his  life;  and  out  of  Texas  would  he  come, 
bringing,  so  it  is  said,  first  editions  of  George 
Borrow  and  Jane  Austen.  It  was  maddening 
to  be  with  him  at  such  times,  especially  if  one 
had  a  gift  for  envy. 

Yet  why  should  one  envy  him  his  money,  or 
his  unerring  hand  and  eye }  He  paid  for  the 
book,  but  it  was  yours  to  read  and  to  caress  so 
long  as  you  would.  If  he  took  it  from  you  it 
was  only  that  he  might  pass  it  on  to  some  other 
friend.  But  if  that  volume  once  started  in  the 
direction  of  the  great  tomb  of  books  in  West- 
chester County,  no  power  on  earth  could  avail 
to  restore  it  to  the  light  of  day. 

It  is  pleasant  to  meditate  upon  past  journeys 
with  the  Bibliotaph.  He  was  an  incomparable 
traveling  companion,  buoyant,  philosophic,  in- 
capable of  fatigue,  and  never  ill.  Yet  it  is  a 
tradition  current,  that  he,  the  mighty,  who 
called  himself  a  friend  to  physicians,  because 
he  never  robbed  them  of  their  time  either  in 
or  out  of  office-hours,  once  succumbed  to  that 
irritating  little  malady  known  as  car-sickness. 
He  succumbed,  but  he  met  his  fate  bravely  and 


FRIENDS   AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  33 

with  the  colors  of  his  wit  flying.  The  circum- 
stances are  these  :  — 

There  is  a  certain  railway  thoroughfare  which 
justly  prides  itself  upon  the  beauty  of  its  scen- 
ery. This  road  passes  through  a  hill-country, 
and  what  it  gains  in  the  picturesque  it  loses  in 
that  rectilinear  directness  most  grateful  to  the 
traveler  with  a  sensitive  stomach.  The  Biblio- 
taph  often  patronized  this  thoroughfare,  and 
one  day  it  made  him  sick.  As  the  train  swept 
around  a  sharp  curve,  he  announced  his  earliest 
symptom  by  saying :  '  The  conspicuous  advan- 
tages of  this  road  are  that  one  gets  views  of 
the  scenery  and  reviews  of  his  meals.' 

A  few  minutes  later  he  suggested  that  the 
road  would  do  well  to  change  its  name,  and 
hereafter  be  known  as  'The  Emetic  G.  and  O.' 

They  who  were  with  him  proffered  sym- 
pathy, but  he  refused  to  be  pitied.  He  thought 
he  had  a  remedy.  He  discovered  that  by  tak- 
ing as  nearly  as  possible  a  reclining  posture,  he 
got  temporary  relief.  He  kept  settling  more 
and  more  till  at  last  he  was  nearly  on  his  back. 
Then  he  said :  '  If  it  be  true  that  the  lower 
down  we  get  the  more  comfortable  we  are,  the 
basements  of  Hell  will  have  their  compensa- 
tions.' 

He  was  too  ill  to  say  much  after  this,  but  his 
last  word,  before  the  final  and  complete  extinc- 
tion of  his  manhood,  was,  'The  influence  of 
this  road  is  such  that  employees  have  been 
known  involuntarily  to  throw  up  their  jobs,' 


34  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

The  Bibliotaph  invariably  excited  comment 
and  attention  when  he  was  upon  his  travels.  I 
do  not  think  he  altogether  liked  it.  Perhaps 
he  neither  liked  it  nor  disliked  it.  He  accepted 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  as  other  men  quite  as 
he  would  have  accepted  any  indisputable  fact. 
He  used  occasionally  to  express  annoyance  be- 
cause of  the  discrepancy  between  his  reputation 
and  appearance ;  in  other  words,  because  he 
seemed  a  man  of  greater  fame  than  he  was. 
He  suffered  the  petty  discomforts  of  being  a 
personage,  and  enjoyed  none  of  the  advantages. 
He  declared  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  be 
much  more  distinguished  or  much  less  conspic- 
uous. What  he  objected  to  was  the  Laodicean 
character  of  his  reputation  as  set  over  against 
the  pronounced  and  even  startling  character  of 
his  looks  and  manner. 

He  used  also  to  note  with  amusement  how 
indelible  a  mark  certain  early  ambitions  and 
tentative  studies  had  made  upon  him.  People 
invariably  took  him  for  a  clergyman.  They 
decided  this  at  once  and  conducted  themselves 
accordingly.  He  made  no  protest,  but  observed 
that  their  convictions  as  to  how  they  should 
behave  in  his  presence  had  corollaries  in  the 
shape  of  very  definite  convictions  as  to  how  he 
should  carry  himself  before  them.  He  thought 
that  such  people  might  be  described  as  moral 
trainers.  They  do  not  profess  virtue  them- 
selves, but  they  take  a  real  pleasure  in  keeping 
you  up  to  your  profession. 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  35 

The  Bibliotaph  had  no  explanation  to  give 
why  he  was  so  immediately  and  invariably  ac- 
counted as  one  in  orders.  He  was  quite  sure 
that  the  clerical  look  was  innate,  and  by  no 
means  dependent  upon  the  wearing  of  a  high 
vest  or  a  Joseph  Parker  style  of  whisker ;  for 
once  as  he  sat  in  the  hot  room  of  a  Turkish 
bath  and  in  the  Adamitic  simplicity  of  attire 
suitable  to  the  temperature  and  the  place,  a 
gentleman  who  occupied  the  chair  nearest  in- 
troduced conversation  by  saying,  'I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  are  you  not  a  clergyman  ? ' 

'This  incident,'  said  the  Bibliotaph,  'gave  me 
a  vivid  sense  of  the  possibility  of  determining 
a  man's  profession  by  a  cursory  examination  of 
his  cuticle.'  Lowell's  conviction  about  N,  P. 
Willis  was  well-founded  :  namely,  that  if  it  had 
been  proper  to  do  so,  Willis  could  have  worn 
his  own  plain  bare  skin  in  a  way  to  suggest 
that  it  was  a  representative  Broadway  tailor's 
best  work. 

I  imagine  that  few  boys  escape  an  outburst 
of  that  savage  instinct  for  personal  adornment 
which  expresses  itself  in  the  form  of  rude  tat- 
tooing upon  the  arms.  The  Bibliotaph  had  had 
his  attack  in  early  days,  and  the  result  was  a 
series  of  decorations  of  a  highly  patriotic  char- 
acter, and  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  South 
Kensington  standards.  I  said  to  him  once, 
apropos  of  the  pictures  on  his  arms  :  *  You  are 
a  great  surprise  to  your  friends  in  this  particu- 


36  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

lar.'  *  Yes,'  he  replied,  'few  of  them  are  aware 
that  the  volume  of  this  Life  is  extra-illustrated.' 

But  that  which  he  of  necessity  tolerated  in 
himself  he  would  not  tolerate  in  his  books. 
They  were  not  allowed  to  become  pictorially 
amplified.  He  saw  no  objection  to  inserting  a 
rare  portrait  in  a  good  book.  It  did  not  neces- 
sarily injure  the  book,  and  it  was  one  way  of 
preserving  the  portrait.  Yet  the  thing  was 
questionable,  and  it  was  likely  to  prove  the  first 
step  in  a  downward  path.  As  to  cramming  a 
volume  with  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  pictures 
and  letters  gathered  from  all  imaginable  sources, 
he  held  the  practice  in  abhorrence,  and  the  bib- 
liographical results  as  fit  only  for  the  libraries 
of  the  illiterate  rich.  He  admitted  the  possi- 
bility of  doing  such  a  thing  well  or  ill ;  but  at 
its  best  it  was  an  ill  thing  skillfully  done. 

The  Bibliotaph  upon  his  travels  was  a  note- 
worthy figure  if  only  because  of  the  immense 
parcel  of  books  with  which  he  burdened  him- 
self. That  part  of  the  journeying  public  which 
loves  to  see  some  new  thing  puzzled  itself 
mightily  over  the  gentleman  of  full  habit,  who 
in  addition  to  his  not  inconsiderable  encum- 
brance of  flesh  and  luggage,  chose  to  carry 
about  a  shawl-strap  loaded  to  utmost  capacity 
with  a  composite  mass  of  books,  magazines, 
and  newspapers.  It  was  enormously  heavy,  and 
the  way  in  which  its  component  parts  adhered 
was  but  a  degree  short  of  the  miraculous.     He 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  37 

appeared  hardly  conscious  of  its  weight,  for  he 
would  pick  the  thing  up  and  literally  trip  with 
it  on  a  toe  certainly  not  light,  but  undeniably 
fantastic. 

He  carried  the  books  about  with  him  partly 
because  he  had  just  purchased  them  and  wished 
to  study  their  salient  points,  and  partly  because 
he  was  taking  them  to  a  'bin.'  There  is  no 
mystery  about  these  'bins.'  They  were  merely 
places  of  temporary  rest  for  the  books  before 
the  grand  moving  to  the  main  library.  But  if 
not  mysterious  they  were  certainly  astonishing, 
because  of  their  number  and  size.  With  re- 
spect to  number,  one  in  every  large  city  was 
the  rule.  With  respect  to  size,  few  people  buy 
in  a  lifetime  as  many  books  as  were  sometimes 
heaped  together  in  one  of  these  places  of  de- 
posit. He  would  begin  by  leaving  a  small  bun- 
dle of  books  with  some  favorite  dealer,  then 
another,  and  then  another.  As  the  collection 
enlarged,  the  accommodations  would  be  in- 
creased ;  for  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  do  the  Bib- 
liotaph  this  favor,  he  purchased  so  liberally  and 
tipped  the  juvenile  clerks  in  so  royal  a  manner. 
Nor  was  he  always  in  haste  to  move  out  after 
he  had  once  moved  in.  One  bookseller,  speak- 
ing of  the  splendid  proportions  which  the 
'  bin '  was  assuming,  declared  that  he  some- 
times found  it  difficult  to  adjust  himself  men- 
tally to  the  situation  ;  he  could  n't  tell  when  he 
came  to  his  place  of  business  in  the  morning 


38  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

whether  he  was  in  his  own  shop  or  the  Biblio- 
taph's  library. 

The  comer  of  the  shop  where  the  great  col- 
lector's accumulations  were  piled  up  was  a 
centre  of  mirth  and  conversation  if  he  himself 
chanced  to  be  in  town.  Men  dropped  in  for  a 
minute  and  stayed  an  hour.  In  some  way  time 
appeared  to  broaden  and  leisure  to  grow  more 
ample.  Life  had  an  unusual  richness,  and 
warmth,  and  color,  when  the  Bibliotaph  was 
by.  There  was  an  Olympian  largeness  and 
serenity  about  him.  He  seemed  almost  pagan 
in  the  breadth  of  his  hold  upon  existence.  And 
when  he  departed  he  left  behind  him  what 
can  only  be  described  as  great  unfilled  mental 
spaces.  I  recall  that  a  placard  was  hung  up 
in  his  particular  corner  with  the  inscription, 
'English  spoken  here.'  This  amused  him. 
Later  there  was  attached  to  it  another  strip 
upon  which  was  crayoned,  'Sir,  we  had  much 
good  talk,'  with  the  date  of  the  talk.  Still 
later  a  victim  added  the  words,  'Yes,  sir,  on 
that  day  the  Bibliotaph  tossed  and  gored  a 
number  of  people  admirably.' 

It  was  difficult  for  the  Bibliotaph  not  to  emit 
intellectual  sparks  of  one  kind  or  another.  His 
habit  of  dealing  with  every  fact  as  if  it  de- 
served his  entire  mental  force,  was  a  secret  of 
his  originality.  Everything  was  worth  while. 
If  the  fact  was  a  serious  fact,  all  the  strength 
of  his  mind  would  be  applied  to  its  exposition 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  39 

or  defense.  If  it  was  a  fact  of  less  importance, 
humor  would  appear  as  a  means  to  the  conver- 
sational end.  And  he  would  grow  more  humor- 
ous as  the  topics  grew  less  significant.  When 
finally  he  rioted  in  mere  word-play,  banter, 
quizzing,  it  was  a  sign  that  he  regarded  the 
matter  as  worthy  no  higher  species  of  notice. 

I  like  this  theory  of  his  wit  so  well  that  I  am 
minded  not  to  expose  it  to  an  over-rigid  test. 
The  following  small  fragments  of  his  talk  are 
illustrative  of  such  measure  of  truth  as  the 
theory  may  contain. 

Among  the  Bibliotaph's  companions  was  one 
towards  whose  mind  he  affected  the  benevolent 
and  encouraging  attitude  of  a  father  to  a  bud- 
ding child.  He  was  asked  by  this  friend  to 
describe  a  certain  quaint  and  highly  successful 
entertainer.  This  was  the  response :  '  The 
gentleman  of  whom  you  speak  has  the  habit  of 
coming  before  his  audience  as  an  idiot  and  re- 
tiring as  a  genius.  You  and  I,  sir,  could  n't  do 
that ;  we  should  sustain  the  first  character  con- 
sistently throughout  the  entire  performance.' 

It  was  his  humor  to  insist  that  all  the  virtues 
and  gifts  of  a  distinguished  collector  were  due 
for  their  expansion  and  development  to  asso- 
ciation with  himself  and  the  writer  of  these 
memories.  He  would  say  in  the  presence  of 
the  distinguished  collector :  '  Henry  will  prob- 
ably one  day  forget  us,  but  on  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, in  any  just  estimate  of  the  causes  of  his 
success,  the  Lord  won't.' 


40  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

I  have  forgotten  what  the  victim's  retort 
was  ;  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  it  was  adequate. 

This  same  collector  had  the  pleasing  habit  of 
honoring  the  men  he  loved,  among  whom  the 
Bibliotaph  was  chief,  with  brightly  written 
letters  which  filled  ten  and  fifteen  half-sheets. 
But  the  average  number  of  words  to  a  line  was 
two,  while  a  five-syllable  word  had  trouble  in 
accommodating  itself  to  a  line  and  a  half,  and 
the  sheets  were  written  only  upon  one  side. 
The  Bibliotaph's  comment  was  :  '  Henry  has  a 
small  brain  output,  but  unlimited  influence  at  a 
paper-mill.' 

Of  all  the  merry  sayings  in  which  the  Bibli- 
otaph indulged  himself  at  the  expense  of  his 
closest  friend  this  was  the  most  comforting.  A 
gentleman  present  was  complaining  that  Henry 
took  liberties  in  correcting  his  pronunciation. 
*  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  occasional  need  of  such 
correction,  but  it  is  n't  often  required,  and  not 
half  so  often  as  he  seems  to  think.  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  observe  frequent  minor  slips  in  his 
use  of  language,  but  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
correct  him.' 

The  Bibliotaph  began  to  apply  salve  to  the 
bruised  feelings  of  the  gentleman  present  as 
follows:  'The  animus  of  Henry's  criticism  is 
unquestionably  envy.  He  probably  feels  how 
few  flies  there  are  in  your  ointment.  While 
you  are  astonished  that  in  his  case  there  should 
be  so  little  ointment  for  so  many  flies.' 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  41 

The  Bibliotaph  never  used  slang,  and  the 
united  recollections  of  his  associates  can  adduce 
but  two  or  three  instances  in  which  he  sunk 
verbally  so  low  as  even  to  hint  slang.  He  said 
that  there  was  one  town  which  in  his  capacity 
of  public  speaker  he  should  like  to  visit.  It  was 
a  remote  village  in  Virginia  where  there  was  a 
girls'  seminary,  the  catalogue  of  which  set  forth 
among  advantages  of  location  this :  that  the 
town  was  one  to  which  the  traveling  lecturer 
and  the  circus  never  came.  The  Bibliotaph 
said,  'I  should  go  there.  For  I  am  the  one 
when  I  am  on  the  platform,  and  by  the  unani- 
mous testimony  of  all  my  friends  I  am  the 
other  when  I  am  off.' 

The  second  instance  not  only  illustrates  his 
ingenuity  in  trifles,  but  also  shows  how  he  could 
occasionally  answer  a  friend  according  to  his 
folly.  He  had  been  describing  a  visit  which  he 
had  made  in  the  hero-worshiping  days  of  boy- 
hood to  Chappaqua ;  how  friendly  and  good- 
natured  the  great  farmer-editor  was ;  how  he 
called  the  Bibliotaph  *  Bub,'  and  invited  him  to 
stay  to  dinner ;  how  he  stayed  and  talked  pol- 
itics with  his  host ;  how  they  went  out  to  the 
bam  afterwards  to  look  at  the  stock;  what 
Greeley  said  to  him  and  what  he  said  to  Gree- 
ley, —  it  was  a  perfect  bit  of  word-sketching, 
spontaneous,  realistic,  homely,  unpretentious, 
irresistibly  comic  because  of  the  quaintness  of 
the  dialogue  as  reported,  and  because  of  the 


42  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

mental  image  which  we  formed  of  this  large- 
headed,  round-bellied,  precocious  youth,  who  at 
the  age  of  sixteen  was  able  for  three  consecu- 
tive hours  to  keep  the  conversational  shuttle- 
cock in  the  air  with  no  less  a  person  than 
Horace  Greeley.  Amid  the  laughter  and  com- 
ment which  followed  the  narration  one  mirthful 
genius  who  chose  for  the  day  to  occupy  the 
seat  of  the  scorner,  called  out  to  the  Biblio- 
taph :  — 

*  How  old  did  you  say  you  were  at  that  time, 
"Bub"?' 

*  Sixteen.' 

'  And  did  you  wear  whiskers  } ' 

The  query  was  insulting.  But  the  Bibliotaph 
measured  the  flippancy  of  the  remark  with  his 
eye  and  instantly  iitted  an  answer  to  the  men- 
tal needs  of  the  questioner. 

'Even  if  I  had,'  he  said,  'it  would  have 
availed  me  nothing,  for  in  those  days  there  was 
no  wind.' 

The  Bibliotaph  was  most  at  home  in  the 
book-shop,  on  the  street,  or  at  his  hotel.  He 
went  to  public  libraries  only  in  an  emergency, 
for  he  was  impatient  of  that  needful  discipline 
which  compelled  him  to  ask  for  each  volume  he 
wished  to  see.  He  had,  however,  two  friends 
in  whose  libraries  one  might  occasionally  meet 
him  in  the  days  when  he  hunted  books  upon 
this  wide  continent.  One  was  the  gentleman 
to  whom   certain   letters    on   literature    have 


FRIENDS   AND  SCRAP-BOOKS  43 

been  openly  addressed,  and  who  has  made  a 
library  by  a  process  which  involves  wise  selec- 
tion and  infinite  self-restraint.  This  priceless 
little  collection  contains  no  volume  which  is 
imperfect,  no  volume  which  mars  the  fine  sense 
of  repose  begotten  in  one  at  the  sight  of  lovely 
books  becomingly  clothed,  and  no  volume  which 
is  not  worthy  the  name  of  literature.  And 
there  is  matter  for  reflection  in  the  thought 
that  it  is  not  the  library  of  a  rich  man.  Money 
cannot  buy  the  wisdom  which  has  made  this 
collection  what  it  is,  and  without  self-denial  it 
is  hardly  possible  to  give  the  touch  of  real  ele- 
gance to  a  private  library.  When  dollars  are 
not  counted  the  assemblage  of  books  becomes 
promiscuous.  How  may  we  better  describe 
this  library  than  by  the  phrase  Infinite  riches 
in  a  little  book-case ! 

There  was  yet  another  friend,  the  Country 
Squire,  who  revels  in  wealth,  buys  large-paper 
copies,  reads  little  but  deeply,  and  raises  chick- 
ens. His  library  (the  room  itself,  I  mean)  is 
a  gentleman's  library,  with  much  cornice,  much 
plate-glass,  and  much  carving ;  whereof  a  wit 
said,  '  The  Squire  has  such  a  beautiful  library, 
and  no  place  to  put  his  books.' 

These  books  are  of  a  sort  to  rejoice  the  heart, 
but  their  tenure  of  occupancy  is  uncertain. 
Hardly  one  of  them  but  is  liable  to  eviction 
without  a  moment's  notice.  They  have  a  look 
in   their   attitude   which    indicates   conscious- 


44  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

ness  of  being  pilgrims  and  strangers.  They 
seem  to  say,  *  We  can  tarry,  we  can  tarry  but 
a  night.'  Some  have  tarried  two  nights,  others 
a  week,  others  a  year,  a  few  even  longer.  But 
aside  from  a  dozen  or  so  of  volumes,  not  one  of 
the  remaining  three  thousand  dares  to  affirm 
that  it  holds  a  permanent  place  in  its  owner's 
heart  of  hearts.  It  is  indeed  a  noble  procession 
of  books  which  has  passed  in  and  out  of  those 
doors.  A  day  will  come  in  which  the  owner 
realizes  that  he  has  as  good  as  the  market  can 
furnish,  and  then  banishments  will  cease.  One 
sighs  not  for  the  volumes  which  deserved  exile, 
but  for  those  which  were  sent  away  because 
their  master  ceased  to  love  them. 

There  was  no  friend  with  whom  the  Biblio- 
taph  lived  on  easier  terms  than  with  the  Country 
Squire.  They  were  counterparts.  They  sup- 
plemented one  another.  The  Bibliotaph,  though 
he  was  born  and  bred  on  a  farm,  had  fled  for 
his  salvation  to  the  city.  The  Squire,  a  man 
of  city  birth  and  city  education,  had  fled  for 
his  soul's  health  to  the  country ;  he  had  ren- 
dered existence  almost  perfect  by  setting  up  an 
urban  home  in  rural  surroundings.  It  was  well 
said  of  that  house  that  it  was  finely  reticent  in 
its  proffers  of  hospitality,  and  regally  magnifi- 
cent in  its  kindness  to  those  whom  it  delighted 
to  honor. 

It  was  in  the  Country  Squire's  library  that 
the  Bibliotaph  first  met  that  actor  with  whom 


FRIENDS   AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  45 

he  became  even  more  intimate  than  with  the 
Squire  himself.  The  closeness  of  their  relation 
suggested  the  days  of  the  old  Miracle  plays 
when  the  theatre  and  the  Church  were  as  hand 
in  glove.  The  Bibliotaph  signified  his  apprecia- 
tion of  his  new  friend  by  giving  him  a  copy  of 
a  sixteenth-century  book  *  containing  a  plea- 
sant invective  against  Poets,  Pipers,  Players, 
Jesters,  and  such  like  Caterpillars  of  a  Com- 
monwealth.' The  Player  in  turn  compiled  for 
his  friend  of  clerical  appearance  a  scrap-book, 
intended  to  show  how  evil  associations  corrupt 
good  actors. 

This  actor  professed  that  which  for  want  of 
a  better  term  might  be  called  parlor  agnosti- 
cism. The  Bibliotaph  was  sturdily  inclined 
towards  orthodoxy,  and  there  was  from  time  to 
time  collision  between  the  two.  It  is  my  im- 
pression that  the  actor  sometimes  retired  with 
four  of  his  five  wits  halting.  But  he  was 
brilliant  even  when  he  mentally  staggered. 
Neither  antagonist  convinced  the  other,  and 
after  a  while  they  grew  wearied  of  traveling 
over  one  another's  minds. 

It  fell  out  on  a  day  that  the  actor  made  a 
fine  speech  before  a  large  gathering,  and  mind- 
ful of  stage  effect  he  introduced  a  telling  allu- 
sion to  an  all-wise  and  omnipotent  Providence. 
For  this  he  was,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  *  soundly 
spanked '  by  all  his  friends ;  that  is,  he  was 
mocked  at,  jeered,  ridiculed.     To  what   end, 


46  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

they  said,  was  one  an  agnostic  if  he  weakly 
yielded  his  position  to  the  exigencies  of  an 
after-dinner  speech.  The  Bibliotaph  alone  took 
pains  to  analyze  his  late  antagonist's  position. 
He  wrote  to  the  actor  congratulating  him  upon 
his  success.  'I  wondered  a  little  at  this,  re- 
membering how  inconsiderable  has  been  your 
practice ;  and  I  infer  that  it  has  been  inconsid- 
erable, for  I  am  aware  how  seldom  an  actor  can 
be  persuaded  to  make  a  speech,  I,  too,  was  at 
first  shocked  when  I  heard  that  you  had  made 
a  respectful  allusion  to  Deity ;  but  I  presently 
took  comfort,  rememhering  that  your  gods,  like 
your  grease-paints,  are  purely  professional.' 

He  was  always  capital  in  these  teasing  moods. 
To  be  sure,  he  buffeted  one  about  tremen- 
dously, but  his  claws  were  sheathed,  and  there 
was  a  contagiousness  in  his  frolicsome  humor. 
Moreover  one  learned  to  look  upon  one's  self 
in  the  light  of  a  public  benefactor.  To  submit 
to  be  knocked  about  by  the  Bibliotaph  was  in 
a  modest  way  to  contribute  to  the  gayety  of  na- 
tions. If  one  was  not  absolutely  happy  one's 
self,  there  was  a  chastened  comfort  in  behold- 
ing the  happiness  of  the  on-lookers. 

A  small  author  wrote  a  small  book,  so  small 
that  it  could  be  read  in  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  cover  an  umbrella,  that  is,  'while  you  wait,' 
The  Bibliotaph  had  Brobdingnagian  joy  of  this 
book.  He  sat  and  read  it  to  himself  in  the 
author's  presence,  and  particularly  diminutive 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  47 

that  book  appeared  as  its  light  cloth  cover  was 
outlined  against  the  Bibliotaph's  ample  black 
waistcoat.  From  time  to  time  he  would  vent 
*  a  series  of  small  private  laughs,'  especially  if 
he  was  on  the  point  of  announcing  some  fresh 
illustration  of  the  fallibility  of  inexperienced 
writers.  Finally  the  uncomfortable  author  said, 
'Don't  sit  there  and  pick  out  the  mistakes.' 
To  which  the  Bibliotaph  triumphantly  replied, 
'  What  other  motive  is  there  for  reading  it  at 
all.?' 

He  purchased  every  copy  of  this  book  which 
he  could  find,  and  when  asked  by  the  author 
why  he  did  so,  replied,  *  In  order  to  withdraw 
it  from  circulation.'  A  moment  afterwards  he 
added  reflectively,  'But  how  may  I  hope  to 
withdraw  a  book  from  that  which  it  has  never 
had.?' 

He  was  apt  to  be  severe  in  his  judgment  of 
books,  as  when  he  said  of  a  very  popular  but 
very  feeble  literary  performance  that  it  was  an 
argument  for  the  existence  of  God.  *  Such  in- 
tensity of  stupidity  was  not  realized  without 
Infinite  assistance.' 

He  could  be  equally  emphatic  in  his  com- 
ments upon  men.  Among  his  acquaintance 
was  a  church  dignitary  who  blew  alternately 
hot  and  cold  upon  him.  When  advised  of  some 
new  illustration  of  the  divine's  uncertainty  of 
attitude,  the  Bibliotaph  merely  said,  'He's 
more  of  a  chameleon  than  he  is  a  clergyman.* 


48  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

That  Bostonian  would  be  deficient  in  wit  who 
failed  to  enjoy  this  remark.  Speaking  of  the 
characteristics  of  American  cities,  the  Biblio- 
taph  said,  *It  never  occurs  to  the  Hub  that 
anything  of  importance  can  possibly  happen  at 
the  periphery.' 

He  greatly  admired  the  genial  and  philan- 
thropic editor  of  a  well-known  Philadelphia 
newspaper.  Shortly  after  Mr.  Childs's  death 
some  one  wrote  to  the  Bibliotaph  that  in  a 
quiet  Kentucky  town  he  had  noticed  a  sign 
over  a  shop-door  which  read,  *G.  W.  Childs, 
dealer  in  Tobacco  and  Cigars.'  There  was 
something  graceful  in  the  Bibliotaph's  reply. 
He  expressed  surprise  at  Mr.  Childs's  new  oc- 
cupation, but  declared  that  for  his  own  part  he 
was  *  glad  to  know  that  the  location  of  Heaven 
had  at  last  been  definitely  ascertained.' 

The  Bibliotaph  habitually  indulged  himself 
in  the  practice  of  hero-worship.  This  propen- 
sity led  him  to  make  those  glorified  scrap-books 
which  were  so  striking  a  feature  in  his  collec- 
tion. They  were  no  commonplace  affairs,  the 
ugly  result  of  a  union  of  cheap  leather,  news- 
paper-clippings and  paste,  but  sumptuous  books 
resplendent  in  morocco  and  gilt  tooling,  the 
creations  of  an  artist  who  was  eminent  among 
binders.  These  scrap-books  were  chiefly  de- 
voted to  living  men,  —  men  who  were  famous, 
or  who  were  believed  to  be  on  the  high  road  to 
fame.    There  was  a  book  for  each  man.    In  this 


FRIENDS  AND  SCRAP-BOOKS  49 

way  did  the  Bibliotaph  burn  incense  before  his 
Dii  majores  et  minores. 

These  books  were  enriched  with  everything 
that  could  illustrate  the  gifts  and  virtues  of  the 
men  in  whose  honor  they  were  made.  They 
contained  rare  manuscripts,  rare  pictures,  auto- 
graph comments  and  notes,  a  bewildering  va- 
riety of  records,  —  memorabilia  which  were 
above  price.  Poets  wrote  humorous  verse,  and 
artists  who  justly  held  their  time  as  too  pre- 
cious to  permit  of  their  working  for  love  deco- 
rated the  pages  of  the  Bibliotaph's  scrap-books. 
One  does  not  abuse  the  word  'unique'  when 
he  applies  it  to  these  striking  volumes. 

The  Bibliotaph  did  not  always  follow  contem- 
porary judgment  in  his  selection  of  men  to  be 
so  canonized.  He  now  and  then  honored  a 
man  whose  sense  of  the  relation  of  achievement 
to  fame  would  not  allow  him  to  admit  to  him- 
self that  he  deserved  the  distinction,  and  whose 
sense  of  humor  could  not  but  be  strongly  ex- 
cited at  the  thought  of  deification  by  so  un- 
usual a  process.  It  might  be  pleasant  to  con- 
sider that  the  Bibliotaph  cared  so  much  for 
one's  letters  as  to  wish  not  to  destroy  them, 
but  it  was  awful  to  think  of  those  letters  as 
bound  and  annotated.  This  was  to  get  a  taste 
of  posthumous  fame  before  posthumous  fame 
was  due.  The  Bibliotaph  added  a  new  terror 
to  life,  for  he  compelled  one  to  live  up  to  one's 
scrap-book.     He  reversed  the  old  Pagan  for- 


50  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

mula,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  *  So-and-So 
died  and  was  made  a  god.'  According  to  the 
BibHotaph's  prophetic  method,  a  man  was  made 
a  god  first  and  allowed  to  die  at  his  leisure 
afterward.  Not  every  one  of  that  little  com- 
pany which  his  wisdom  and  love  have  marked 
for  great  reputation  will  be  able  to  achieve  it. 
They  are  unanimously  grateful  that  he  cared 
enough  for  them  to  wish  to  drag  their  humble 
gifts  into  the  broad  light  of  publicity.  But 
their  gratitude  is  tempered  by  the  thought  that 
perhaps  he  was  only  elaborately  humorous  at 
their  expense. 

The  BibHotaph's  intellectual  processes  were 
so  vigorous  and  his  pleasure  in  mental  activity 
for  its  own  sake  was  so  intense  that  he  was  quite 
capable  of  deciding  after  a  topic  of  discussion 
had  been  introduced  which  side  he  would  take. 
And  this  with  a  splendid  disdain  of  the  merits 
of  the  cause  which  he  espoused.  I  remember 
that  he  once  set  out  to  maintain  the  thesis  that 
a  certain  gentleman,  as  notable  for  his  virtues 
as  he  was  conspicuous  for  lack  of  beauty,  was 
essentially  a  handsome  man.  The  person  who 
initiated  the  discussion  by  observing  that  *  Mr. 
Blank  was  unquestionably  a  plain  man'  ex- 
pected from  the  Bibliotaph  (if  he  expected  any 
remark  whatever)  nothing  beyond  a  Platonic 
'That  I  do  most  firmly  believe.'  He  was  not  a 
little  astonished  when  the  great  book-collector 
began  an  elaborate  and  exhaustive  defense  of 


FRIENDS   AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  51 

the  gentleman  whose  claims  to  beauty  had 
been  questioned.  At  first  it  was  dialogue,  and 
the  opponent  had  his  share  of  talk ;  but  when 
in  an  unlucky  moment  he  hinted  that  such 
energy  could  only  be  the  result  of  conscious- 
ness on  the  Bibliotaph's  part  that  he  was  in  a 
measure  pleading  his  own  cause,  the  dialogue 
changed  to  monologue.  For  the  Bibliotaph 
girded  up  his  loins  and  proceeded  to  smite  his 
opponent  hip  and  thigh.  All  in  good  humor,  to 
be  sure,  and  laughter  reigned,  but  it  was  tre- 
mendous and  it  was  logically  convincing.  It 
was  clearly  not  safe  to  have  a  reputation  for 
good  looks  while  the  Bibliotaph  was  in  this 
temper.  All  the  gentlemen  were  in  terror  lest 
something  about  their  countenances  might  be 
construed  as  beauty,  and  men  with  good  com- 
plexions longed  for  newspapers  behind  which 
to  hide  their  disgrace. 

As  for  the  disputant  who  had  stirred  up  the 
monster,  his  situation  was  as  unenviable  as  it 
was  comic  to  the  bystanders.  He  had  never 
before  dropped  a  stone  into  the  great  geyser. 
He  was  therefore  unprepared  for  the  result. 
One  likened  him  to  an  unprotected  traveler  in 
a  heavy  rain-storm.  For  the  Bibliotaph's  un- 
premeditated speech  was  a  very  cloud-burst  of 
eloquence.  The  unhappy  gentleman  looked  de- 
spairingly in  every  direction  as  if  beseeching 
us  for  the  loan  of  a  word-proof  umbrella.  There 
was  none  to  be  had.     We  who  had  known  a 


52  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

like  experience  were  not  sorry  to  stand  under 
cover  and  watch  a  fellow  mortal  undergo  this 
verbal  drenching.  The  situation  recalled  one 
described  by  Lockhart  when  a  guest  differed 
on  a  point  of  scholarship  with  the  great  Cole- 
ridge. Coleridge  began  to  '  exert  himself.'  He 
burst  into  a  steady  stream  of  talk  which  broad- 
ened and  deepened  as  the  moments  fled.  When 
finally  it  ceased  the  bewildered  auditor  pulled 
himself  together  and  exclaimed,  *  Zounds,  I 
was  never  so  be-thumped  with  words  in  my 
life!' 

People  who  had  opportunity  of  observing  the 
Bibliotaph  were  tempted  to  speculate  on  what 
he  might  have  become  if  he  had  not  chosen  to 
be  just  what  he  was.  His  versatiHty  led  them 
to  declare  for  this,  that,  and  the  other  profes- 
sion, largely  in  accordance  with  their  own  per- 
sonal preferences.  Lawyers  were  sure  that  he 
should  have  been  an  advocate ;  ministers  that 
he  would  have  done  well  to  yield  to  the  '  call ' 
he  had  in  his  youth ;  teachers  were  positive 
that  he  would  have  made  an  inspiring  teacher. 
No  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  ever  told  him  that  in 
becoming  a  book-collector  he  had  deprived  the 
world  of  a  great  musician  ;  for  he  was  like 
Charles  Lamb  in  that  he  was  sentimentally 
inclined  to  harmony  but  organically  incapable 
of  a  tune. 

Yet  he  was  so  broad-minded  that  it  was  not 
possible  for  him  to  hold  even  a  neutral  attitude 


FRIENDS  AND   SCRAP-BOOKS  53 

in  the  presence  of  anything  in  which  other  peo- 
ple delighted.  I  have  known  him  to  sit  through 
a  long  and  heavy  organ  recital,  not  in  a  re- 
signed manner  but  actively  attentive,  clearly 
determined  that  if  the  minutest  portion  of  his 
soul  was  sensitive  to  the  fugues  of  J.  S.  Bach 
he  would  allow  that  portion  to  bask  in  the  sun- 
shine of  an  unwonted  experience.  So  that 
from  one  point  of  view  he  was  the  incarnation 
of  tolerance  as  he  certainly  was  the  incarnation 
of  good-humor  and  generosity.  He  envied  no 
man  his  gifts  from  Nature  or  Fortune.  He  was 
not  only  glad  to  let  live,  but  painstakingly 
energetic  in  making  the  living  of  people  a  plea- 
sure to  them,  and  he  received  with  amused 
placidity  adverse  comments  upon  himself. 

Words  which  have  been  used  to  describe  a 
famous  man  of  this  century  I  will  venture  to 
apply  in  part  to  the  Bibliotaph.  'He  was  a 
kind  of  gigantic  and  Olympian  school-boy,  .  .  . 
loving-hearted,  bountiful,  wholesome  and  ster- 
ling to  the  heart's  core.' 


LAST  WORDS   ON  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

The  Bibliotaph's  major  passion  was  for  col- 
lecting books  ;  but  he  had  a  minor  passion,  the 
bare  mention  of  which  caused  people  to  lift 
their  eyebrows  suspiciously.  He  was  a  shame- 
less, a  persistent,  and  a  successful  hunter  of 
autographs.  His  desire  was  for  the  signatures 
of  living  men  of  letters,  though  an  occasional 
dead  author  would  be  allowed  a  place  in  the 
collection,  provided  he  had  not  been  dead  too 
long.  As  a  rule,  however,  the  Bibliotaph  cov- 
eted the  '  hand  of  write '  of  the  man  who  was 
now  more  or  less  conspicuously  in  the  public 
eye.  This  autograph  must  be  written  in  a 
representative  work  of  the  author  in  question. 
The  Bibliotaph  would  not  have  crossed  the 
street  to  secure  a  line  from  Ben  Jonson's  pen, 
but  he  mourned  because  the  autograph  of  the 
Rev.  C.  L.  Dodgson  was  not  forthcoming,  nor 
likely  to  be.  His  conception  of  happiness  was 
this :  to  own  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  upon  the  fly-leaf  of  which 
Lewis  Carroll  had  written  his  name,  together 
with  the  statement  that  he  had  done  so  at  the 
Bibliotaph's  request,  and  because  that  eminent 


LAST  WORDS  55 

collector  could  not  be  made  happy  in  any  other 
way. 

The  Bibliotaph  liked  the  autograph  of  the 
modern  man  of  letters  because  it  was  modem, 
and  because  there  was  a  reasonable  hope  of  its 
being  genuine.  He  loved  genuineness.  Every- 
thing about  himself  was  exactly  what  it  pre- 
tended to  be.  From  his  soul  to  his  clothing  he 
was  honest.  And  his  love  for  the  genuine 
was  only  surpassed  in  degree  by  his  contempt 
for  the  spurious.  I  remember  that  some  one 
gave  him  a  bit  of  silverware,  a  toilet  article, 
perhaps,  which  he  next  day  threw  out  of  a  car 
window,  because  he  had  discovered  that  it  was 
not  sterling.  He  scouted  the  suggestion  that 
possibly  the  giver  may  not  have  known.  Such 
ignorance  was  inexcusable,  he  said,  '  The  likelier 
interpretation  was  that  the  gift  was  symbolical 
of  the  giver.'  The  act  seemed  brutal,  and  the 
comment  thereon  even  more  so.  But  to  realize 
the  atmosphere,  the  setting  of  the  incident,  one 
must  imagine  the  Bibliotaph's  round  and  com- 
fortable figure,  his  humorous  look,  and  the  air 
of  genial  placidity  with  which  he  would  do  and 
say  a  thing  like  this.  It  was  as  impossible  to 
be  angry  with  him  in  behalf  of  the  unfortunate 
giver  of  cheap  silver  as  to  take  offense  at  a  tree 
or  mountain.  And  it  was  useless  to  argue  the 
matter  —  nay  it  was  folly,  for  he  would  imme- 
diately become  polysyllabic  and  talk  one  down. 


S6  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

It  was  this  desire  for  genuine  things  which 
made  him  entirely  suspicious  of  autographs 
which  had  been  bought  and  sold.  He  had  no 
faith  in  them,  and  he  would  weaken  your  faith, 
supposing  you  were  a  collector  of  such  things. 
Offer  him  an  autograph  of  our  first  president 
and  he  would  reply,  '  I  don't  believe  that  it 's 
genuine  ;  and  if  it  were  I  should  n't  care  for  it ; 
I  never  had  the  honor  of  General  Washington's 
acquaintance.'  The  inference  was  that  one 
could  have  a  personal  relation  with  a  living 
great  man,  and  the  chances  were  largely  in 
favor  of  getting  an  autograph  that  was  not  an 
object  of  suspicion. 

Few  collectors  in  this  line  have  been  as  happy 
as  the  Bibliotaph.  The  problem  was  easily  mas- 
tered with  respect  to  the  majority  of  authors. 
As  a  rule  an  author  is  not  unwilling  to  give 
such  additional  pleasure  to  a  reader  of  his 
book  as  may  consist  in  writing  his  name  in  the 
reader's  copy.  It  is  conceivable  that  the  author 
may  be  bored  by  too  many  requests  of  this 
nature,  but  he  might  be  bored  to  an  even 
greater  degree  if  no  one  cared  enough  for  him 
to  ask  for  his  autograph.  Some  writers  re- 
sisted a  little,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the 
Bibliotaph  bring  them  to  terms.  He  was  a 
highwayman  of  the  Tom  Faggus  type,  just  so 
adroit,  and  courteous,  and  daring.  He  was 
perhaps  at  his  best  in  cases  where  he  had 
actually  to  hold  up  his  victim;  one  may  ima- 


LAST  WORDS  57 

gine  the  scene,  —  the  author  resisting,  the  Bib- 
hotaph  determined  and  having  the  masterful  air 
of  an  expert  who  had  handled  just  such  cases 
before. 

A  humble  satellite  who  disapproved  of  these 
proceedings  read  aloud  to  the  Bibliotaph  that 
scorching  little  essay  entitled  Involuntary  Bail- 
ees, written  by  perhaps  the  wittiest  living  Eng- 
lish essayist.  An  involuntary  bailee  —  as  the 
essayist  explains  —  is  a  person  to  whom  people 
(generally  unknown  to  him)  send  things  which 
he  does  not  wish  to  receive,  but  which  they  are 
anxious  to  have  returned.  If  a  man  insists 
upon  lending  you  a  book,  you  become  an  in- 
voluntary bailee.  You  don't  wish  to  read  the 
book,  but  you  have  it  in  your  possession.  It 
has  come  to  you  by  post,  let  us  suppose,  'and 
to  pack  it  up  and  send  it  back  again  requires 
a  piece  of  string,  energy,  brown  paper,  and 
stamps  enough  to  defray  the  postage.'  And  it 
is  a  question  whether  a  casual  acquaintance 
'has  any  right  thus  to  make  demands  on  a 
man's  energy,  money,  time,  brown  paper,  string, 
and  other  capital  and  commodities.'  There  are 
other  ways  of  making  a  man  an  involuntary 
bailee.  You  may  ask  him  to  pass  judgment  on 
your  poetry,  or  to  use  his  influence  to  get  your 
tragedy  produced,  or  to  do  any  one  of  a  half 
hundred  things  which  he  does  n't  want  to  do 
and  which  you  have  no  business  to  ask  him  to 
do.     The  essayist  makes   no  mention  of  the 


58  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

particular  form  of  sin  which  the  Bibliotaph 
practiced,  but  he  would  probably  admit  that 
malediction  was  the  only  proper  treatment  for 
the  idler  who  bothers  respectable  authors  by 
asking  them  to  write  their  names  in  his  copies 
of  their  books.  For  to  what  greater  extent 
could  one  trespass  upon  an  author's  patience, 
energy,  brown  paper,  string,  and  commodities 
generally  ?  It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  Bib- 
liotaph as  he  listened  to  this  arraignment  of  his 
favorite  pursuit.  The  writer  of  the  essay  admits 
that  there  may  be  extenuating  circumstances. 
If  the  autograph  collector  comes  bearing  gifts 
one  may  smile  upon  his  suit.  If  for  example 
he  accompanies  his  request  for  an  autograph 
with  'several  brace  of  grouse,  or  a  salmon  of 
noble  proportions,  or  rare  old  books  bound  by 
Derome,  or  a  service  of  Worcester  china  with 
the  square  mark,'  he  may  hope  for  success. 
The  essayist  opines  that  such  gifts  *  will  not  be 
returned  by  a  celebrity  who  respects  himself.' 
'They  bless  him  who  gives  and  him  who  takes 
much  more  than  tons  of  manuscript  poetry, 
and  thousands  of  entreaties  for  an  autograph.' 

A  superficial  examination  of  the  Bibliotaph's 
collection  revealed  the  fact  that  he  had  either 
used  necromancy  or  given  many  gifts.  The 
reader  may  imagine  some  such  conversation 
between  the  great  collector  and  one  of  his  daz- 
zled visitors :  — 

*  Pray,  how  did  you  come  by  this  ? ' 


LAST  WORDS  59 

'His  lordship  has  always  been  very  kind  in 
such  matters.' 

'  And  where  did  you  get  this  ? ' 

*  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  the  Prime  Minister 
for  his  complaisance.' 

*  But  this  poet  is  said  to  abhor  Americans.' 
'You  see  that  his   antipathy  has   not   pre- 
vented his  writing  a  stanza  in  my  copy  of  his 
most  notable  volume.' 

'And  this?' 

*  I  have  at  divers  times  contributed  the  sum 
of  five  dollars  to  divers  Fresh  Air  funds.' 

The  Bibliotaph  could  not  be  convinced  that 
his  sin  of  autograph  collecting  was  not  venial. 
When  authors  denied  his  requests,  on  the 
ground  that  they  were  intrusions,  he  was  in- 
clined to  believe  that  selfishness  lay  at  the 
basis  of  their  motives.  Some  men  are  quite 
willing  to  accept  great  fame,  but  they  resent 
being  obliged  to  pay  the  penalties.  They  wish 
to  sit  in  the  fierce  light  which  beats  on  an  in- 
tellectual throne,  but  they  are  indignant  when 
the  passers-by  stop  to  stare  at  them.  They 
imagine  that  they  can  successfully  combine  the 
glory  of  honorable  publicity  with  the  perfect 
retirement  enjoyed  only  by  aspiring  mediocrity. 
The  Bibliotaph  believed  that  he  was  a  mission- 
ary to  these  people.  He  awakened  in  them  a 
sense  of  their  obligations  toward  their  admirers. 
The  principle  involved  is  akin  to  that  enun- 
ciated by  a  certain  American  philosopher,  who 


6o  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

held  that  it  is  an  act  of  generosity  to  borrow 
of  a  man  once  in  a  while ;  it  gives  that  man  a 
lively  interest  in  the  possible  success  or  pos- 
sible failure  of  your  undertaking. 

He  levied  autographic  toll  on  young  writers. 
For  mature  men  of  letters  with  established  re- 
putations he  would  do  extraordinary  and  diffi- 
cult services.  A  famous  Englishman,  not  a 
novelist  by  profession,  albeit  he  wrote  one  of 
the  most  successful  novels  of  his  day,  earnestly 
desired  to  own  if  possible  a  complete  set  of 
all  the  American  pirated  editions  of  his  book. 
The  Bibliotaph  set  himself  to  this  task,  and 
collected  energetically  for  two  years.  The  un- 
dertaking was  considerable,  for  many  of  the 
pirated  editions  were  in  pamphlet,  and  dating 
from  twenty  years  back.  It  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  get  the  earliest  in  a  spotless  condition. 
Quantities  of  trash  had  to  be  overhauled,  and 
weeks  might  elapse  before  a  perfect  copy  of  a 
given  edition  would  come  to  light.  Books  are 
dirty,  but  pamphlets  are  dirtier.  The  Biblio- 
taph declared  that  had  he  rendered  an  itemized 
bill  for  services  in  this  matter,  the  largest  item 
would  have  been  for  Turkish  baths. 

Here  was  a  case  in  which  the  collector  paid 
well  for  the  privilege  of  having  a  signed  copy 
of  a  well-loved  author's  novel.  He  begrudged 
no  portion  of  his  time  or  expenditure.  If  it 
pleased  the  great  Englishman  to  have  upon  his 
shelves,  in  compact  array  and  in  spotless  condi- 


LAST  WORDS  6i 

tion,  these  proofs  of  what  he  did  lit  earn  by 
the  publication  of  his  books  in  America,  well 
and  good.  The  Bibliotaph  was  delighted  that 
so  modest  a  service  on  his  part  could  give  so 
apparently  great  a  pleasure.  The  Englishman 
must  have  had  the  collecting  instinct,  and  he 
must  have  been  philosophical,  since  he  could 
contemplate  with  equanimity  these  illegitimate 
volumes. 

The  conclusion  of  the  story  is  this :  The 
work  of  collecting  the  reprints  was  finished. 
The  last  installment  reached  the  famous  Eng- 
lishman during  an  illness  which  subsequently 
proved  fatal.  They  were  spread  upon  the  cover- 
lid of  the  bed,  and  the  invalid  took  a  great  and 
humorous  satisfaction  in  looking  them  over. 
Said  the  Bibliotaph,  recounting  the  incident  in 
his  succinct  way,  'They  reached  him  on  his 
death-bed,  —  and  made  him  willing  to  go.' 

The  Bibliotaph  was  true  to  the  traditions  of 
the  book-collecting  brotherhood,  in  that  he  read 
but  little.  His  knowledge  of  the  world  was 
fresh  from  life,  not  'strained  through  books,' 
as  Johnson  said  of  a  certain  Irish  painter  whom 
he  knew  at  Birmingham.  But  the  Bibliotaph 
was  a  mighty  devourer  of  book-catalogues.  He 
got  a  more  complete  satisfaction,  I  used  to 
think,  in  reading  a  catalogue  than  in  reading 
any  other  kind  of  literature.  To  see  him  un- 
wrapping the  packages  which  his  English  mail 
had  brought  was  to  see  a  happy  man.     For  in 


62  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

addition  to  books  by  post,  there  would  be  bun- 
dles of  sale-catalogues.  Then  might  you  be- 
hold his  eyes  sparkle  as  he  spread  out  the 
tempting  lists ;  the  humorous  lines  about  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  deepened,  and  he  would 
take  on  what  a  little  girl  who  watched  him 
called  his  'pussy-cat  look,'  Then  with  an  in- 
delible pencil  in  his  huge  and  pudgy  left  fist 
(for  the  Bibliotaph  was  a  Benjaminite),  he  would 
go  through  the  pages,  checking  off  the  items 
of  interest,  rolling  with  delight  in  his  chair  as 
he  exclaimed  from  time  to  time,  *  Good  books  ! 
Such  good  books ! '  Say  to  him  that  you  your- 
self liked  to  read  a  catalogue,  and  his  response 
was  pretty  sure  to  be,  *  Pleasant,  is  n't  it  ? '  This 
was  expressive  of  a  high  state  of  happiness, 
and  was  an  allusion.  For  the  Bibliotaph  was 
once  with  a  newly-married  man,  and  they  two 
met  another  man,  who,  as  the  conversation 
proceeded,  disclosed  the  fact  that  he  also  had 
but  recently  been  wed.  Whereupon  the  first 
bridegroom,  marveling  that  there  could  be  an- 
other in  the  world  so  exalted  as  himself,  ex- 
claimed with  sympathetic  delight,  'And  you, 
too,  are  married.'  'Yes,'  said  the  second, 
*  pleasant,  isn  't  it } '  with  much  the  same  air 
that  he  would  have  said,  '  Nice  afternoon.'  This 
was  one  of  the  incidents  which  made  the 
Bibliotaph  skeptical  about  marriage.  But  he 
adopted  the  phrase  as  a  useful  one  with  which 
to  express  the  state  of  highest  mental  and 
spiritual  exaltation. 


LAST  WORDS  63 

People  wondered  at  the  extent  of  his  know- 
ledge of  books.  It  was  very  great,  but  it  was 
not  incredible.  If  a  man  cannot  touch  pitch 
without  being  defiled,  still  less  can  he  handle 
books  without  acquiring  bibliographical  infor- 
mation. I  am  not  sure  that  the  Bibliotaph 
ever  heard  of  that  professor  of  history  who 
used  to  urge  his  pupils  to  handle  books,  even 
when  they  could  not  get  time  to  read  them. 
'Go  to  the  library,  take  down  the  volumes, 
turn  over  the  leaves,  read  the  title-pages  and 
the  tables  of  contents ;  information  will  stick 
to  you '  —  this  was  the  professor's  advice.  In- 
formation acquired  in  this  way  may  not  be  pro- 
found, but  so  far  as  it  goes  it  is  definite  and 
useful.  For  the  collector  it  is  indispensable. 
In  this  way  the  Bibliotaph  had  amassed  his 
seemingly  phenomenal  knowledge  of  books. 
He  had  handled  thousands  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  volumes,  and  he  never  relinquished 
his  hold  upon  a  book  until  he  had  '  placed '  it,  — 
until  he  knew  just  what  its  rank  was  in  the 
hierarchy  of  desirability. 

Between  a  diligent  reading  of  catalogues  and 
an  equally  diligent  rummaging  among  the  col- 
lections of  third  and  fourth  rate  old  book-shops, 
the  Bibliotaph  had  his  reward.  He  undoubt- 
edly bought  a  deal  of  trash,  but  he  also  lighted 
upon  nuggets.  For  example,  in  Leask's  Life 
of  Boswell  is  an  account  of  that  curious  lit- 
tle romance  entitled  Dorando.    This  so-called 


64   ,  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

Spanish  Tale,  printed  for  J.  Wilkie  at  the  Bible 
in  St.  Paul's  Church -Yard,  was  the  work  of 
James  Boswell.  It  was  published  anonymously 
in  1767,  and  he  who  would  might  then  have 
bought  it  for  '  one  shilling.'  It  was  to  be  *  sold 
also  by  J.  Dodsley  in  Pall  Mall,  T.  Davies  in 
Russell-Street,  Covent  Garden,  and  by  the 
Book-sellers  of  Scotland.'  This  T.  Davies  was 
the  very  man  who  introduced  Boswell  to  John- 
son. He  was  an  actor  as  well  as  a  bookseller. 
Dorando  was  a  story  with  a  key.  Under  the 
names  of  Don  Stocaccio,  Don  Tipponi,  and 
Don  Rodomontado  real  people  were  described, 
and  the  facts  of  the  'famous  Douglas  cause' 
were  presented  to  the  public.  The  little  vol- 
ume was  suppressed  in  so  far  as  that  was  pos- 
sible. It  is  rare,  so  rare  that  Boswell's  latest 
biographer  speaks  of  it  as  the  *  forlorn  hope  of 
the  book-hunter,'  though  he  doubts  not  that 
copies  of  it  are  lurking  in  some  private  collec- 
tion. One  copy  at  least  is  lurking  in  the  Bibli- 
otaph's  library.  He  bought  it,  not  for  a  song 
to  be  sure,  but  very  reasonably.  The  Biblio- 
taph  declares  that  this  book  is  good  for  but  one 
thing,  —  to  shake  in  the  faces  of  Boswell  col- 
lectors who  have  n't  it. 

The  Bibliotaph  had  many  literary  heroes. 
Conspicuous  among  them  were  Professor  Rich- 
ard Person  and  Benjamin  Jowett,  the  late  mas- 
ter of  Balliol.  The  Bibliotaph  collected  every- 
thing that  related  to  these  two  men,  all  the 


LAST  WORDS  65 

books  with  which  they  had  had  anything  to  do, 
every  newspaper  clipping  and  magazine  article 
which  threw  light  upon  their  manners,  habits, 
modes  of  thought.  He  especially  loved  to  tell 
anecdotes  of  Porson.  He  knew  many.  He  had 
an  interleaved  copy  of  J.  Selby  Watson's  Life 
of  Porson  into  which  were  copied  a  multitude 
of  facts  not  to  be  found  in  that  amusing  bio- 
graphy. The  Bibliotaph  used  to  say  that  he 
would  rather  have  known  Porson  than  any  other 
man  of  his  time.  He  used  to  quote  this  as  one 
of  the  best  illustrations  of  Porson's  wit,  and 
one  of  the  finest  examples  of  the  retort  satiric 
to  be  found  in  any  language.  One  of  Porson's 
works  was  assailed  by  Wakefield  and  by  Her- 
mann, scholars  to  be  sure,  but  scholars  whose 
scholarship  Porson  held  in  contempt.  Being 
told  of  their  attack  Porson  only  said  that  *  what- 
ever he  wrote  in  the  future  should  be  written 
in  such  a  way  that  those  fellows  would  n't  be 
able  to  reach  it  with  their  fore-paws  if  they 
stood  on  their  hind-legs  to  get  at  it ! ' 

The  Bibliotaph  gave  such  an  air  of  contem- 
poraneity to  his  stories  of  the  great  Greek  pro- 
fessor that  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  they  were 
the  relations  of  one  who  had  actually  known 
Porson.  So  vividly  did  he  portray  the  marvels 
of  that  compound  of  thirst  and  scholarship  that 
no  one  had  the  heart  to  laugh  when,  after  one 
of  his  narrations,  a  gentleman  asked  the  Biblio- 
taph if  he  himself  had  studied  under  Porson. 


66  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

*  Not  under  him  but  with  him,'  said  the  Bib- 
liotaph.  *  He  was  my  coeval.  Porson,  Richard 
Bentley,  Joseph  Scaliger,  and  I  were  all  stu- 
dents together.' 

Speaking  of  Jowett  the  Bibliotaph  once  said 
that  it  was  wonderful  to  note  how  culture  failed 
to  counteract  in  an  Englishman  that  disposition 
to  heave  stones  at  an  American.  Jowett,  with 
his  remarkable  breadth  of  mind  and  temper, 
was  quite  capable  of  observing,  with  respect  to 
a  certain  book,  that  it  was  American,  *yet  in 
perfect  taste.'  'This,' said  the  Bibliotaph,  'is 
as  if  one  were  to  say,  "  The  guests  were  Ameri- 
cans, but  no  one  expectorated  on  the  carpet."  ' 
The  Bibliotaph  thought  that  there  was  not  so 
much  reason  for  this  attitude.  The  sins  of 
Englishmen  and  Americans  were  identical,  he 
believed,  but  the  forms  of  their  expression  were 
different.  *  Our  sin  is  a  voluble  boastfulness ; 
theirs  is  an  irritating,  unrestrainable,  all-but- 
constantly  manifested,  satisfied  self-conscious- 
ness. The  same  results  are  reached  by  dif- 
ferent avenues.  We  praise  ourselves ;  they 
belittle  others.'  Then  he  added  with  a  smile : 
*  Thus  even  in  these  latter  days  are  the  Scrip- 
tures exemplified ;  the  same  spirit  with  varying 
manifestations.' 

He  was  once  commenting  upon  Jowett' s 
classification  of  humorists.  Jowett  divided  hu- 
morists *  into  three  categories  or  classes ;  those 
who  are  not  worth  reading  at  all;  those  who 


LAST  WORDS  67 

are  worth  reading  once,  but  once  only ;  and 
those  who  are  worth  reading  again  and  again 
and  for  ever.'  This  remark  was  made  to  Swin- 
burne, who  quotes  it  in  his  all  too  brief  Recol- 
lections of  Professor  Jowett.  Swinburne  says 
that  the  starting-point  of  their  discussion  was 
the  Biglow  Papers,  which  'famous  and  admi- 
rable work  of  American  humour '  Jowett  placed 
in  the  second  class.  Swinburne  himself  thought 
that  the  Biglow  Papers  was  too  good  for  the 
second  class  and  not  quite  good  enough  for  the 
third.  *  I  would  suggest  that  a  fourth  might 
be  provided,  to  include  such  examples  as  are 
worth,  let  us  say,  two  or  three  readings  in  a 
life-time.' 

The  Bibliotaph  made  a  variety  of  comments 
on  this,  but  I  remember  only  the  following ;  it 
is  a  reason  for  not  including  the  Biglow  Papers 
in  Jowett' s  third  and  crowning  class.  *  Humor 
to  be  popular  permanently  must  be  general 
rather  than  local,  and  have  to  do  with  a  phase 
of  character  rather  than  a  fact  of  history ;  that 
is,  it  must  deal  in  a  great  way  with  what  is  al- 
ways interesting  to  all  men.  Humor  that  does 
not  meet  this  requirement  is  not  likely,  when 
its  novelty  has  worn  off,  to  be  read  even  occa- 
sionally save  by  those  who  enjoy  it  as  an  in- 
tellectual performance  or  who  are  making  a 
critical  study  of  its  author.'  The  observation, 
if  not  profound,  is  at  least  sensible,  and  it  illus- 
trates very  well  the  Bibliotaph's  love  of  allitera- 


68  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

tion  and  antithesis.  But  it  is  easier  to  remem- 
ber and  to  report  his  caustic  and  humorous 
remarks. 

The  Country  Squire  had  a  card-catalogue  of 
the  books  in  his  library,  and  he  delighted  to 
make  therein  entries  of  his  past  and  his  new 
purchases.  But  it  was  not  always  possible  to 
find  upon  the  shelves  books  that  were  men- 
tioned in  the  catalogue.  The  Bibliotaph  took 
advantage  of  a  few  instances  of  this  sort  to 
prod  his  moneyed  friend.  He  would  ask  the 
Squire  if  he  had  such-and-such  a  book.  The 
Squire  would  say  that  he  had,  and  appeal  to  his 
catalogue  in  proof  of  it.  Then  would  follow  a 
search  for  the  volume.  If,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened, no  book  corresponding  to  the  entry  could 
be  found,  the  Bibliotaph  would  be  satirical  and 
remark :  — 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  name  your 
catalogue.' 

'What.?' 

*  Great  expectations ! ' 

Another  time  he  said,  *  This  is  not  a  list  of 
your  books,  this  is  a  list  of  the  things  that  you 
intend  to  buy ; '  or  he  would  suggest  that  the 
Squire  would  do  well  to  christen  his  catalogue 
Vaulting  Ambition.  Perhaps  the  variation 
might  take  this  form.  After  a  fruitless  search 
for  some  book,  which  upon  the  testimony  of 
the  catalogue  was  certainly  in  the  collection, 
the  Bibliotaph  would  observe,  '  This  catalogue 


LAST   WORDS  69 

might  not  inappropriately  be  spoken  of  as  the 
substance  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  evidence 
of  things  not  seen.'  Another  time  the  Biblio- 
taph  said  to  the  Squire,  calling  to  mind  the 
well-known  dictum  as  to  the  indispensableness 
of  certain  books,  'Between  what  one  sees  on 
your  shelves  and  what  one  reads  in  your  card- 
catalogue  one  would  have  reason  to  believe  that 
you  were  a  gentleman.' 

Once  the  Bibliotaph  said  to  me  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Squire :  *  I  think  that  our  individ- 
ual relation  to  books  might  be  expressed  in  this 
way.  You  read  books  but  you  don't  buy  them. 
I  buy  books  but  I  don't  read  them.  The 
Squire  neither  reads  them  nor  buys  them, — 
only  card-catalogues  them  ! ' 

To  all  this  the  Squire  had  a  reply  which  was 
worldly,  emphatic,  and  adequate,  but  the  object 
of  this  study  is  not  to  exhibit  the  virtues  of  the 
Squire's  speech,  witty  though  it  was. 

One  of  the  Bibliotaph' s  friends  began  with- 
out sufficient  provocation  to  write  verse.  The 
Bibliotaph  thought  that  if  the  matter  were  taken 
promptly  in  hand  the  man  could  be  saved.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  next  he  gave  this  friend  a  book 
he  wrote  upon  a  fly-leaf  :  *  To  a  Poet  who  is 
nothing  if  not  original  —  and  who  is  not  origi- 
nal ! '  And  the  injured  rhymester  exclaimed 
when  he  read  the  inscription :  *  You  deface 
every  book  you  give  me.' 

He  could  pay  a  compliment,  as  when  he  was 


70  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

dining  with  a  married  pair  who  were  thought 
to  be  not  yet  disenchanted  albeit  in  the  tenth 
year  of  their  married  Hfe.  The  lady  was  speak- 
ing to  the  Bibliotaph,  but  in  the  eagerness  of 
conversation  addressed  him  by  her  husband's 
first  name.  Whereupon  he  turned  to  the  hus- 
band and  said :  *  Your  wife  implies  that  I  am  a 
repository  of  grace  and  a  bundle  of  virtues,  and 
calls  me  by  your  name.' 

He  once  sent  this  same  lady,  apropos  of  the 
return  of  the  shirt-waist  season,  a  dozen  neck- 
ties. In  the  box  was  his  card  with  these  words 
penciled  upon  it :  *  A  contribution  to  the  man- 
made  dress  of  a  God-made  woman.' 

The  Squire  had  great  skill  in  imitating  the 
cries  of  various  domestic  fowl,  as  well  as  dogs, 
cats,  and  children.  Once,  in  a  moment  of  social 
relaxation,  he  Was  giving  an  exhibition  of  his 
power  to  the  vast  amusement  of  his  guests. 
When  he  had  finished,  the  Bibliotaph  said : 
'The  theory  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  that 
every  man  has  something  of  the  animal  in  him 
is  superabundantly  exemplified  in  your  case. 
You,  sir,  have  got  the  whole  Ark.' 

There  was  a  quaint  humor  in  his  most  com- 
monplace remarks.  Of  all  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  he  loved  most  a  watermelon.  And  when 
a  fellow-traveler  remarked,  'That  watermelon 
which  we  had  at  dinner  was  bad,'  the  Biblio- 
taph instantly  replied  :  *  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  bad  watermelon.  There  are  watermelons, 
and  ^^^2'^;' watermelons.' 


LAST   WORDS  71 

I  expressed  astonishment  on  learning  that  he 
stood  six  feet  in  his  shoes.  He  repHed  :  *  Peo- 
ple are  so  preoccupied  in  the  consideration  of 
my  thickness  that  they  don't  have  time  to  ob- 
serve my  height.' 

Again,  when  he  was  walking  through  a  pri- 
vate park  which  contained  numerous  monstrosi- 
ties in  the  shape  of  painted  metal  deer  on 
pedestals,  pursued  (also  on  pedestals)  by  hunt- 
ers and  dogs,  the  Bibliotaph  pointed  to  one  of 
the  dogs  and  said,  *  Cave  cast-iron  canem  ! ' 

He  once  accompanied  a  party  of  friends  and 
acquaintances  to  the  summit  of  Mt.  Tom.  The 
ascent  is  made  in  these  days  by  a  very  remark- 
able inclined  plane.  After  looking  at  the  ex- 
tensive and  exquisite  view,  the  Bibliotaph  fell 
to  examining  his  return  coupon,  which  read, 
*Good  for   one  Trip  Down.'    'Then  he  said: 

*  Let  us  hope  that  in  a  post-terrestrial  experi- 
ence our  tickets  will  not  read  in  this  way.' 

He  was  once  ascending  in  the  unusually 
commodious  and  luxurious  elevator  of  a  new 
ten-story  hotel  and  remarked  to  his  companion  : 

*  If  we  can't  be  carried  to  the  skies  on  flowery 
beds  of  ease,  we  can  at  least  start  in  that  direc- 
tion under  not  dissimilar  conditions.'  He  also 
said  that  the  advantage  of  stopping  at  this  par- 
ticular hotel  was  that  you  were  able  to  get  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  city  in  which  it  was 
located. 

He  studied  the  dictionary  with   great   dili- 


72  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

gence  and  was  unusually  accurate  in  his  pro- 
nunciation. He  took  an  amused  satisfaction  in 
pronouncing  exactly  certain  words  which  in 
common  talk  had  shifted  phonetically  from 
their  moorings.  This  led  a  gentleman  who 
was  intimate  with  the  Bibliotaph  to  say  to  him, 

*  Why,  if  I  were  to  pronounce  that  word  among 
my  kinsfolk  as  you  do  they'd  think  I  was 
crazy.'     *  What  you  mean,'  said  the  Bibliotaph, 

*  is,  that  they  would  look  upon  it  in  the  light  of 
supererogatory  supplementary  evidence.' 

He  himself  indulged  overmuch  in  allitera- 
tion, but  it  was  with  humorous  intent ;  and 
critics  forgave  it  in  him  when  they  would  have 
reprehended  it  in  another.  He  had  no  notion 
that  it  was  fine.  Taken,  however,  in  connec- 
tion with  his  emphatic  manner  and  sonorous 
voice  he  produced  a  decided  and  original  effect. 
Meeting  the  Squire's  wife  after  a  considerable 
interval,  I  asked  whether  her  husband  had  been 
behaving  well.  She  replied  *  As  usual.'  Where- 
upon the  Bibliotaph  said,  '  You  mean  that  his 
conduct  in  these  days  is  characterized  by  a  pleth- 
ora of  intention  and  a  paucity  of  performance.' 

He  objected  to  enlarging  the  boundaries  of 
words  until  they  stood  for  too  many  things. 
Let  a  word  be  kept  so  far  as  was  reasonable  to 
its  earlier  and  authorized  meaning.  Speaking 
of  the  word  'symposium,'  which  has  been 
stretched  to  mean  a  collection  of  short  articles 
on  a  given  subject,  the  Bibliotaph  said  that  he 


LAST  WORDS  73 

could  fancy  a  honey-bee  which  had  been  feast- 
ing on  pumice  until  it  was  unable  to  make  the 
line  characteristic  of  its  kind,  explaining  to  its 
queen  that  it  had  been  to  a  symposium ;  but 
that  he  doubted  if  we  ought  to  allow  any  other 
meaning. 

The  Bibliotaph  got  much  amusement  from 
what  he  insisted  were  the  ill-concealed  anxieties 
of  his  friend  the  actor  on  the  subject  of  a  future 
state.  *  He  has  acquired,'  said  the  Bibliotaph, 
'both  a  pathetic  and  a  prophetic  interest  in 
that  place  which  begins  as  heaven  does,  but 
stops  off  monosyllabically.' 

The  two  men  were  one  day  discussing  the 
question  of  the  permanency  of  fame,  how  ephem- 
eral for  example  was  that  reputation  which 
depended  upon  the  living  presence  of  the  artist 
to  make  good  its  claim  ;  how  an  actor,  an  orator, 
a  singer,  was  bound  to  enjoy  his  glory  while  it 
lasted,  since  at  the  instant  of  his  death  all  tan- 
gible evidence  of  greatness  disappeared;  he 
could  not  be  proven  great  to  one  who  had  never 
seen  and  heard  him.  Having  reached  this 
point  in  his  philosophizing  the  Bibliotaph's 
player-friend  became  sentimental  and  quoted  a 
great  comedian  to  the  effect  that  *  a  dead  actor 
was  a  mighty  useless  thing.'  'Certainly,'  said 
the  Bibliotaph,  '  having  exhausted  the  life  that 
now  is,  and  having  no  hope  of  the  life  that  is  to 
come.' 

Sometimes  it  pleased  the  Bibliotaph  to  main- 


74  THE   BIBLIOTAPH 

tain  that  his  friend  of  the  footlights  would  be 
in  the  future  state  a  mere  homeless  wanderer, 
having  neither  positive  satisfaction  nor  positive 
discomfort.  For  the  actor  was  wont  to  insist 
that  even  if  there  were  an  orthodox  heaven  its 
moral  opposite  were  the  desirable  locality ;  all 
the  clever  and  interesting  fellows  would  be 
down  below,  *  Except  yourself,'  said  the  Bibli- 
otaph.  *You,  sir,  will  be  eliminated  by  your 
own  reasoning.  You  will  be  denied  heaven 
because  you  are  not  good,  and  hell  because  you 
are  not  great.' 

On  the  whole  it  pleased  the  Bibliotaph  to 
maintain  that  his  friend's  course  was  down- 
ward, and  that  the  sooner  he  reconciled  him- 
self to  his  undoubted  fate  the  better.  'Why 
speculate  upon  it  ? '  he  said  paternally  to  the 
actor,  'your  prospective  comparisons  will  one 
day  yield  to  reminiscent  contrasts.' 

The  actor  was  convinced  that  the  Biblio- 
taph's  own  past  life  needed  looking  into,  and  he 
declared  that  when  he  got  a  chance  he  was 
going  to  examine  the  great  records.  To  which 
the  Bibliotaph  promptly  responded :  '  The 
books  of  the  recording  angel  will  undoubtedly 
be  open  to  your  inspection  if  you  can  get  an 
hour  off  to  come  up.  The  probability  is  that 
you  will  be  overworked.' 

The  Bibliotaph  never  lost  an  opportunity  for 
teasing.  He  arrived  late  one  evening  at  the 
house  of  a  friend  where  he  was  always  heartily 


LAST  WORDS  75 

welcome,  and  before  answering  the  chorus  of 
greetings,  proceeded  to  kiss  the  lady  of  the 
mansion,  a  queenly  and  handsome  woman.  Be- 
ing asked  why  he  —  who  was  a  large  man  and 
very  shy  with  respect  to  women,  as  large  men 
always  are  —  should  have  done  this  thing,  he 
answered  that  the  kiss  had  been  sent  by  a  com- 
mon friend  and  that  he  had  delivered  it  at  once, 
'for  if  there  was  anything  he  prided  himself 
upon  it  was  a  courageous  discharge  of  an 
unpleasant  duty.' 

Once  when  he  had  been  narrating  this  inci- 
dent he  was  asked  what  reply  the  lady  had 
made  to  so  uncourteous  a  speech.  *I  don't 
remember,'  said  the  Bibliotaph,  *it  was  long 
ago ;  but  my  opinion  is  that  she  would  have 
been  justified  in  denominating  me  by  a  mono- 
syllable beginning  with  the  initial  letter  of  the 
alphabet  and  followed  by  successive  sibilants.' 

One  of  the  Bibliotaph' s  fellow  book-hunters 
owned  a  chair  said  to  have  been  given  by  Sir 
Edwin  Landseer  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The 
chair  was  interesting  to  behold,  but  the  Biblio- 
taph after  attempting  to  sit  in  it  immediately 
got  up  and  declared  that  it  was  not  a  genuine 
relic  :  *  Sir  Edwin  had  reason  to  be  grateful  to 
rather  than  indignant  at  Sir  Walter  Scott.' 

He  said  of  a  highly  critical  person  that  if 
that  man  were  to  become  a  minister  he  would 
probably  announce  as  the  subject  of  his  first 
sermon  :  '  The  conditions  that  God  must  meet 


76  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

in  order  to  be  acceptable  to  me.'  He  said  of  a 
poor  orator  who  had  copyrighted  one  of  his 
most  indifferent  speeches,  that  the  man  'posi- 
tively suffered  from  an  excess  of  caution.'  He 
remarked  once  that  the  great  trouble  with  a 
certain  lady  was  *  she  labored  under  the  delu- 
sion that  she  enjoyed  occasional  seasons  of  san- 
ity.' 

The  nil  admirari  attitude  was  one  which  he 
never  affected,  and  he  had  a  contempt  for  men 
who  denied  to  the  great  in  literature  and  art 
that  praise  which  was  their  due.  This  led  him 
to  say  apropos  of  an  obscure  critic  who  had 
assailed  one  of  the  poetical  masters :  *  When 
the  Lord  makes  a  man  a  fool  he  injures  him ; 
but  when  He  so  constitutes  him  that  the  man 
is  never  happy  unless  he  is  making  that  fact 
public.  He  insults  him.' 

He  enjoyed  speculating  on  the  subject  of 
marriage,  especially  in  the  presence  of  those 
friends  who  unlike  himself  knew  something 
about  it  empirically.  He  delighted  to  tell  his 
lady  acquaintances  that  their  husbands  would 
undoubtedly  marry  a  second  time  if  they  had 
the  chance.  It  was  inevitable.  A  man  whose 
experience  has  been  fortunate  is  bound  to 
marry  again,  because  he  is  like  the  man  who 
broke  the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo.  A  man  who 
has  been  unhappily  married  marries  again  be- 
cause like  an  unfortunate  gamester  he  has 
reached  the  time  when   his   luck  has  got  to 


LAST  WORDS  ^^ 

change.  The  Bibliotaph  then  added  with  a 
smile :  '  I  have  the  idea  that  many  men  who 
marry  a  second  time  do  in  effect  what  is  often 
done  by  unsuccessful  gamblers  at  Monte  Carlo ; 
they  go  out  and  commit  suicide.' 

The  Bibliotaph  played  but  few  games.  There 
was  one,  however,  in  which  he  was  skillful.  I 
blush  to  speak  of  it  in  these  days  of  much  mus- 
cular activity.  What  have  goKers,  and  tennis- 
players,  and  makers  of  century  runs  to  do  with 
croquet  .<*  Yet  there  was  a  time  when  croquet 
was  spoken  of  as  *  the  coming  game ; '  and  had 
not  Clintock's  friend  Jennings  written  an  epic 
poem  upon  it  in  twelve  books,  which  poem  he 
offered  to  lend  to  a  certain  brilliant  young  lady } 
But  Gwendolen  despised  boys  and  cared  even 
less  for  their  poetry  than  for  themselves. 

At  the  house  of  the  Country  Squire  the  Bib- 
liotaph was  able  to  gratify  his  passion  for  cro- 
quet, and  verily  he  was  a  master.  He  made  a 
grotesque  figure  upon  the  court,  with  his  big 
frame  which  must  stoop  mightily  to  take  ac- 
count of  balls  and  short-handled  mallets,  with 
his  agile  manner,  his  uncovered  head  shaggy 
with  its  barbaric  profusion  of  hair  (whereby 
some  one  was  led  to  nickname  him  Bibliotaph 
Indetonsus),  with  the  scanty  black  alpaca  coat 
in  which  he  invariably  played  —  a  coat  so  short 
in  the  sleeves  and  so  brief  in  the  skirt  that  the 
figure  cut  by  the  wearer  might  almost  have 
passed  for  that  of  Mynheer  Ten  Broek  of  many- 


78  THE  BIBLIOTAPH 

trowsered  memory.  But  it  was  vastly  more 
amusing  to  watch  him  than  to  play  with  him. 
He  had  a  devil  'most  undoubted.'  Only  with 
the  help  of  black  art  and  by  mortgaging  one's 
soul  would  it  have  been  possible  to  accomplish 
some  of  the  things  which  he  accomplished. 
For  the  materials  of  croquet  are  so  imperfect 
at  best  that  chance  is  an  influential  element. 
I  've  seen  tennis-players  in  the  intervals  of 
their  game  watch  the  Bibliotaph  with  that 
superior  smile  suggestive  of  contempt  for  the 
puerility  of  his  favorite  sport.  They  might 
even  condescend  to  take  a  mallet  for  a  while 
to  amuse  him ;  but  presently  discomfited  they 
would  retire  to  a  game  less  capricious  than  cro- 
quet and  one  in  which  there  was  reasonable 
hope  that  a  given  cause  would  produce  its 
wonted  effect. 

The  Bibliotaph  played  strictly  for  the  pur- 
pose of  winning,  and  took  savage  joy  in  his 
conquests.  In  playing  with  him  one  had  to  do 
two  men's  work ;  one  must  play,  and  then  one 
must  summon  such  philosophy  as  one  might  to 
suffer  continuous  defeat,  and  such  wit  as  one 
possessed  to  beat  back  a  steady  onslaught  of 
daring  and  witty  criticisms.  *I  play  like  a 
fool,'  said  a  despairing  opponent  after  fruitless 
effort  to  win  a  just  share  of  the  games.  'We 
all  have  our  moments  of  unconsciousness,' 
purred  the  Bibliotaph  blandly  in  response. 
This  same  despairing  opponent,  who  was  an 


LAST  WORDS  79 

expert  in  everything  he  played,  said  that  there 
was  but  one  solace  after  croquet  with  the  Bib- 
liotaph ;  he  would  go  home  and  read  Hazlitt's 
essay  on  the  Indian  Jugglers. 

Here  ends  the  account  of  the  BibHotaph. 
From  these  inadequate  notes  it  is  possible  to 
get  some  little  idea  of  his  habits  and  conversa- 
tion. The  library  is  said  to  be  still  growing. 
Packages  of  books  come  mysteriously  from  the 
comers  of  the  earth  and  make  their  way  to 
that  remote  and  almost  inaccessible  village 
where  the  great  collector  hides  his  treasures. 
No  one  has  ever  penetrated  that  region,  and  no 
one,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  has  ever  seen  the 
treasures.  The  books  lie  entombed,  as  it  were, 
awaiting  such  day  of  resurrection  as  their 
owner  shall  appoint  them.  The  day  is  likely  to 
be  long  delayed.  Of  the  collector's  where- 
abouts now  no  one  of  his  friends  dares  to  speak 
positively ;  for  at  the  time  when  knowledge  of 
him  was  most  exact  THE  BIBLIOTAPH  was 
like  a  newly-discovered  comet,  —  his  course  was 
problematical. 


THOMAS   HARDY 


'The  reason  why  so  few  good  books  are 
written  is  that  so  few  people  that  can  write 
know  anything.'  So  said  a  man  who,  during  a 
busy  career,  found  time  to  add  several  fine  vol- 
umes to  the  scanty  number  of  good  books. 
And  in  a  vivacious  paragraph  which  follows 
this  initial  sentence  he  humorously  anathema- 
tizes the  literary  life.  He  shows  convincingly 
that  *  secluded  habits  do  not  tend  to  eloquence.' 
He  says  that  the  'indifferent  apathy'  so  com- 
mon among  studious  persons  is  by  no  means 
favorable  to  liveliness  of  narration.  He  proves 
that  men  who  will  not  live  cannot  write ;  that 
people  who  shut  themselves  up  in  libraries  have 
dry  brains.  He  avows  his  confidence  in  the 
'original  way  of  writing  books,'  the  way  of  the 
first  author,  who  must  have  looked  at  things 
for  himself,  '  since  there  were  no  books  for  hira 
to  copy  from  ; '  and  he  challenges  the  reader  to 
prove  that  this  original  way  is  not  the  best 
way.  'Where,'  he  asks,  'are  the  amusing 
books  from  voracious  students  and  habitual 
writers  ? ' 


THOMAS  HARDY  8i 

This  startling  arraignment  of  authors  has 
been  made  by  other  men  than  Walter  Bagehot. 
Hazlitt  in  his  essay  on  the  *  Ignorance  of  the 
Learned'  teaches  much  the  same  doctrine. 
Its  general  truth  is  indisputable,  though  Bage- 
hot himself  makes  exception  in  favor  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  But  the  two  famous  critics  are 
united  in  their  conviction  that  learned  people 
are  generally  dull,  and  that  books  which  are 
the  work  of  habitual  writers  are  not  amusing. 

There  are  as  a  matter  of  course  more  excep- 
tions than  one.  Thomas  Hardy  is  a  distin- 
guished exception,  Thomas  Hardy  is  an  *  ha- 
bitual writer,'  but  he  is  always  amusing.  The 
following  paragraphs  are  intended  to  emphasize 
certain  causes  of  this  quality  in  his  work,  the 
quality  by  virtue  of  which  he  chains  the  atten- 
tion and  proves  himself  the  most  readable 
novelist  now  living.  That  he  does  attract  and 
hold  is  clear  to  any  one  who  has  tried  no  more 
than  a  half-dozen  pages  from  one  of  his  best 
stories.  He  has  the  fatal  habit  of  being  inter- 
esting, —  fatal  because  it  robs  you  who  read 
him  of  time  which  you  might  else  have  devoted 
to  '  improving '  literature,  such  as  history,  polit- 
ical economy,  or  light  science.  He  destroys 
your  peace  of  mind  by  compelling  your  sympa- 
thies in  behalf  of  people  who  never  existed. 
He  undermines  your  will  power  and  makes  you 
his  slave.  You  declare  that  you  will  read  but 
one  more  chapter  and  you  weakly  consent  to 


82  THOMAS   HARDY 

make  it  two  chapters.  As  a  special  indulgence 
you  spoil  a  working  day  in  order  to  learn  about 
the  Return  of  the  Native,  perhaps  agreeing  with 
a  supposititious  *  better  self '  that  you  will  waste 
no  more  time  on  novels  for  the  next  six  months. 
But  you  are  of  ascetic  fibre  indeed  if  you  do 
not  follow  up  the  book  with  a  reading  of  The 
Woodlanders  and  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge. 

There  is  a  reason  for  this.  If  the  practiced 
writer  often  fails  to  make  a  good  book  because 
he  knows  nothing,  Mr.  Hardy  must  succeed  in 
large  part  because  he  knows  so  much.  The 
more  one  reads  him  the  more  is  one  impressed 
with  the  extent  of  his  knowledge.  He  has  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  an  immense  number 
of  interesting  things. 

He  knows  men  and  women  —  if  not  all  sorts 
and  all  conditions,  at  least  a  great  many  varie- 
ties of  the  human  animal.  Moreover,  his  men 
are  men  and  his  women  are  women.  He  does 
not  use  them  as  figures  to  accentuate  a  land- 
scape, or  as  ventriloquist's  puppets  to  draw 
away  attention  from  the  fact  that  he  himself  is 
doing  all  the  talking.  His  people  have  indivi- 
duality, power  of  speech,  power  of  motion.  He 
does  not  tell  you  that  such  a  one  is  clever  or 
witty ;  the  character  which  he  has  created  does 
that  for  himself  by  doing  clever  things  and 
making  witty  remarks.  In  an  excellent  story 
by  a  celebrated  modern  master  there  is  a  young 
lady  who  is  declared  to  be  clever  and  brilliant 


THOMAS   HARDY  83 

Out  of  forty  or  fifty  observations  which  she 
makes,  the  most  extraordinary  concerns  her 
father ;  she  says,  '  Is  n't  dear  papa  delightful  ? ' 
At  another  time  she  inquires  whether  another 
gentleman  is  not  also  delightful.  Hardy's  re- 
sources are  not  so  meagre  as  this.  When  his 
people  talk  we  listen,  —  we  do  not  endure. 

He  knows  other  things  besides  men  and 
women.  He  knows  the  soil,  the  trees,  the  sky, 
the  sunsets,  the  infinite  variations  of  the  land- 
scape under  cloud  and  sunshine.  He  knows 
horses,  sheep,  cows,  dogs,  cats.  He  under- 
stands the  interpretation  of  sounds,  —  a  detail 
which  few  novelists  comprehend  or  treat  with 
accuracy ;  the  pages  of  his  books  ring  with  the 
noises  of  house,  street,  and  country.  Moreover 
there  is  nothing  conventional  in  his  transcript 
of  facts.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  has 
been  in  the  least  degree  influenced  by  other 
men's  minds.  He  takes  the  raw  stuff  of  which 
novels  are  made  and  moulds  it  as  he  will.  He 
has  an  absolutely  fresh  eye,  as  painters  some- 
times say.  He  looks  on  life  as  if  he  were  the 
first  literary  man,  'and  none  had  ever  lived 
before  him.'  Paraphrasing  Ruskin,  one  may 
say  of  Hardy  that  in  place  of  studying  the  old 
masters  he  has  studied  what  the  old  masters 
studied.  But  his  point  of  view  is  his  own.  His 
pages  are  not  reminiscent  of  other  pages.  He 
never  makes  you  think  of  something  you  have 
read,   but   invariably  of   something  you   have 


84  THOMAS   HARDY 

seen  or  would  like  to  see.  He  is  an  original 
writer,  which  means  that  he  takes  his  material 
at  first  hand  and  eschews  documents.  There 
is  considerable  evidence  that  he  has  read  books, 
but  there  is  no  reason  for  supposing  that  books 
have  damaged  him. 

Dr.  Farmer  proved  that  Shakespeare  had  no 
'learning.'  One  might  perhaps  demonstrate 
that  Thomas  Hardy  is  equally  fortunate.  In 
that  case  he  and  Shakespeare  may  felicitate 
one  another.  Though  when  we  remember  that 
in  our  day  it  is  hardly  possible  to  avoid  a  tinc- 
ture of  scholarship,  we  may  be  doing  the  fairer 
thing  by  these  two  men  if  we  say  that  the  one 
had  small  Greek  and  the  other  has  adroitly  con- 
cealed the  measure  of  Greek,  whether  great  or 
small,  which  is  in  his  possession.  To  put  the 
matter  in  another  form,  though  Hardy  may 
have  drunk  in  large  quantity  *  the  spirit  breathed 
from  dead  men  to  their  kind,'  he  has  not  al- 
lowed his  potations  to  intoxicate  him. 

This  paragraph  is  not  likely  to  be  misinter- 
preted unless  by  some  honest  soul  who  has  yet 
to  learn  that '  literature  is  not  sworn  testimony.' 
Therefore  it  may  be  well  to  add  that  Mr.  Hardy 
undoubtedly  owns  a  collection  of  books,  and 
has  upon  his  shelves  dictionaries  and  encyclo- 
pedias, together  with  a  decent  representation  of 
those  works  which  people  call  '  standard.'  But 
it  is  of  importance  to  remember  this :  That 
while  he  may  be  a  well-read  man,  as  the  phrase 


THOMAS   HARDY  85 

goes,  he  is  not  and  never  has  been  of  that  class 
which  Emerson  describes  with  pale  sarcasm  as 
'meek  young  men  in  libraries.'  It  is  clear  that 
Hardy  has  not  'weakened  his  eyesight  over 
books,'  and  it  is  equally  clear  that  he  has 
'sharpened  his  eyesight  on  men  and  women.* 
Let  us  consider  a  few  of  his  virtues. 

II 

.  In  the  first  place  he  tells  a  good  story.  No 
extravagant  praise  is  due  him  for  this ;  it  is  his 
business,  his  trade.  He  ought  to  do  it,  and 
therefore  he  does  it.  The  *  first  morality '  of  a 
novelist  is  to  be  able  to  tell  a  story,  as  the  first 
morality  of  a  painter  is  to  be  able  to  handle  his 
brush  skillfully  and  make  it  do  his  brain's  in- 
tending. After  all,  telling  stories  in  an  admi- 
rable fashion  is  rather  a  familiar  accomplish- 
ment nowadays.  Many  men,  many  women  are 
able  to  make  stories  of  considerable  ingenuity 
as  to  plot,  and  of  thrilling  interest  in  the  unroll- 
ing of  a  scheme  of  events.  Numberless  writ- 
ers are  shrewd  and  clever  in  constructing  their 
'fable,'  but  they  are  unable  to  do  much  beyond 
this.  Walter  Besant  writes  good  stories  ;  Rob- 
ert Buchanan  writes  good  stories  ;  Grant  Allen 
and  David  Christie  Murray  are  acceptable  to 
many  readers.  But  unless  I  mistake  greatly 
and  do  these  men  an  injustice  I  should  be  sorry 
to  do  them,  their  ability  ceases  just  at  this 
point.     They  tell  good  stories  and  do  nothing 


86  THOMAS   HARDY 

else.  They  write  books  and  do  not  make  liter- 
ature. They  are  authors  by  their  own  will  and 
not  by  grace  of  God.  It  may  be  said  of  them 
as  Augustine  Birrell  said  of  Professor  Freeman 
and  the  Bishop  of  Chester,  that  they  are  homy- 
handed  sons  of  toil  and  worthy  of  their  wage. 
But  one  would  like  to  say  a  little  more.  Grant- 
ing that  this  is  praise,  it  is  so  faint  as  to  be 
almost  inaudible.  If  Hardy  only  wrote  good 
stories  he  would  be  merely  doing  his  duty,  and 
therefore  accounted  an  unprofitable  servant. 
But  he  does  much  besides. 

He  fulfills  one  great  function  of  the  literary 
artist,  which  is  to  mediate  between  nature  and 
the  reading  public.  Such  a  man  is  an  eye 
specialist.  Through  his  amiable  offices  people 
who  have  hitherto  been  blind  are  put  into  con- 
dition to  see.  Near-sighted  persons  have  spec- 
tacles fitted  to  them  —  which  they  generally 
refuse  to  wear,  not  caring  for  literature  which 
clears  the  mental  vision. 

Hardy  opens  the  eyes  of  the  reader  to  the 
charm,  the  beauty,  the  mystery  to  be  found  in 
common  life  and  in  every-day  objects.  So  alert 
and  forceful  an  intelligence  rarely  applies  its 
energy  to  fiction.  The  result  is  that  he  makes 
an  almost  hopelessly  high  standard.  The  ex- 
ceptional man  who  comes  after  him  may  be  a 
rival,  but  the  majority  of  writing  gentlemen 
can  do  little  more  than  enviously  admire.  He 
seems  to  have  established  for  himself  such  a 


THOMAS   HARDY  87 

rule  as  this,  that  he  will  write  no  page  which 
shall  not  be  interesting.  He  pours  out  the 
treasures  of  his  observation  in  every  chapter. 
He  sees  everything,  feels  everything,  sympa- 
thizes with  everything.  To  be  sure  he  has  an 
unusually  rich  field  for  work.  In  The  Mayor 
of  Casterbridge  is  an  account  of  the  discovery 
of  the  remains  of  an  old  Roman  soldier.  One 
would  expect  Hardy  to  make  something  graphic 
of  the  episode.  And  so  he  does.  You  can 
almost  see  the  warrior  as  he  lies  there  *  in  an 
oval  scoop  in  the  chalk,  like  a  chicken  in  its 
shell ;  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chest ;  his 
spear  against  his  arm ;  an  urn  at  his  knees,  a 
jar  at  his  throat,  a  bottle  at  his  mouth ;  and 
mystified  conjecture  pouring  down  upon  him 
from  the  eyes  of  Casterbridge  street-boys  and 
men.' 

The  real  virtue  in  this  bit  of  description  lies 
in  the  few  words  expressive  of  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  the  onlookers.  And  it  is  a  nice  distinc- 
tion which  Hardy  makes  when  he  says  that 
*  imaginative  inhabitants  who  would  have  felt 
an  unpleasantness  at  the  discovery  of  a  compar- 
atively modern  skeleton  in  their  gardens  were 
quite  unmoved  by  these  hoary  shapes.  They 
had  lived  so  long  ago,  their  hopes  and  motives 
were  so  widely  removed  from  ours,  that  be- 
tween them  and  the  living  there  seemed  to 
stretch  a  gulf  too  wide  for  even  a  spirit  to 
pass.' 


88  THOMAS   HARDY 

He  takes  note  of  that  language  which,  though 
not  articulate,  is  in  common  use  among  yeo- 
men, dairymen,  farmers,  and  the  townsfolk  of 
his  little  world.  It  is  a  language  superimposed 
upon  the  ordinary  language.  *  To  express  sat- 
isfaction the  Casterbridge  market-man  added  to 
his  utterance  a  broadening  of  the  cheeks,  a 
crevicing  of  the  eyes,  a  throwing  back  of  the 
shoulders.'  *  If  he  wondered  .  .  .  you  knew  it 
from  perceiving  the  inside  of  his  crimson  mouth 
and  the  target-like  circling  of  his  eyes.'  The 
language  of  deliberation  expressed  itself  in  the 
form  of  '  sundry  attacks  on  the  moss  of  adjoin- 
ing walls  with  the  end  of  his  stick '  or  a  *  change 
of  his  hat  from  the  horizontal  to  the  less  so.' 

The  novel  called  The  Woodlanders  is  filled 
with  notable  illustrations  of  an  interest  in  mi- 
nute things.  The  facts  are  introduced  unob- 
trusively and  no  great  emphasis  is  laid  upon 
them.  But  they  cling  to  the  memory.  Giles 
Winterbourne,  a  chief  character  in  this  story, 
*  had  a  marvelous  power  in  making  trees  grow. 
Although  he  would  seem  to  shovel  in  the  earth 
quite  carelessly  there  was  a  sort  of  sympathy 
between  himself  and  the  fir,  oak,  or  beach  that 
he  was  operating  on ;  so  that  the  roots  took 
hold  of  the  soil  in  a  few  days.'  When  any  of 
the  journeymen  planted,  one  quarter  of  the 
trees  died  away.  There  is  a  graphic  little 
scene  where  Winterbourne  plants  and  Marty 
South    holds    the    trees    for    him.     'Winter- 


THOMAS    HARDY  89 

bourne's  fingers  were  endowed  with  a  gentle 
conjurer's  touch  in  spreading  the  roots  of  each 
little  tree,  resulting  in  a  sort  of  caress  under 
which  the  delicate  fibres  all  laid  themselves  out 
in  their  proper  direction  for  growth.'  Marty- 
declared  that  the  trees  began  to  *  sigh '  as  soon 
as  they  were  put  upright,  '  though  when  they 
are  lying  down  they  don't  sigh  at  all.'  Winter- 
bourne  had  never  noticed  it.  *  She  erected  one 
of  the  young  pines  into  its  hole,  and  held  up 
her  finger ;  the  soft  musical  breathing  instantly 
set  in,  which  was  not  to  cease  night  or  day  till 
the  grown  tree  should  be  felled  —  probably 
long  after  the  two  planters  had  been  felled 
themselves.' 

Later  on  in  the  story  there  is  a  description 
of  this  same  Giles  Winterboume  returning  with 
his  horses  and  his  cider  apparatus  from  a  neigh- 
boring village.  '  He  looked  and  smelt  like 
autumn's  very  brother,  his  face  being  sunburnt 
to  wheat  color,  his  eyes  blue  as  corn  flowers, 
his  sleeves  and  leggings  dyed  with  fruit  stains, 
his  hands  clammy  with  the  sweet  juice  of  ap- 
ples, his  hat  sprinkled  with  pips,  and  every- 
where about  him  that  atmosphere  of  cider 
which  at  its  first  return  each  season  has  such 
an  indescribable  fascination  for  those  who  have 
been  bom  and  bred  among  the  orchards.' 

Hardy  throws  off  little  sketches  of  this  sort 
with  an  air  of  unconsciousness  which  is  fasci- 
nating.    It  may  be  a  sunset,  or  it  may  be  only 


go  THOMAS   HARDY 

a  flake  of  snow  falling  upon  a  young  girl's  hair, 
or  the  light  from  lanterns  penetrating  the  shut- 
ters and  flickering  over  the  ceiling  of  a  room  in 
the  early  winter  morning,  —  no  matter  what 
the  circumstance  or  happening  is,  it  is  caught 
in  the  act,  photographed  in  permanent  colors, 
made  indelible  and  beautiful. 

Hardy's  art  is  tyrannical.  It  compels  one  to 
be  interested  in  that  which  delights  him.  It 
imposes  its  own  standards.  There  is  a  rude 
strength  about  the  man  which  readers  endure 
because  they  are  not  unwilling  to  be  slaves  to 
genius.  You  may  dislike  sheep,  and  care  but 
little  for  the  poetical  aspect  of  cows,  if  indeed 
you  are  not  inclined  to  question  the  existence 
of  poetry  in  cows ;  but  if  you  read  Far  from 
the  Madding  Crowd  you  can  never  again  pass 
a  flock  of  sheep  without  being  conscious  of  a 
multitude  of  new  thoughts,  new  images,  new 
matters  for  comparison.  All  that  dormant  sec- 
tion of  your  soul  which  for  years  was  in  a 
comatose  condition  on  the  subject  of  sheep  is 
suddenly  and  broadly  awake.  Read  Tess  and 
at  once  cows  and  a  dairy  have  a  new  meaning 
to  you.  They  are  a  conspicuous  part  of  the 
setting  of  that  stage  upon  which  poor  Tess 
Durbeyfield's  life  drama  was  played. 

But  Hardy  does  not  flaunt  his  knowledge  in 
his  reader's  face.  These  things  are  distinctly 
means  to  an  end,  not  ends  in  themselves.  He 
has  no  theory  to  advance  about  keeping  bees 


THOMAS   HARDY  91 

or  making  cider.  He  has  taken  no  little  jour- 
neys in  the  world.  On  the  contrary,  where  he 
has  traveled  at  all,  he  has  traveled  extensively. 
He  is  like  a  tourist  who  has  been  so  many  times 
abroad  that  his  allusions  are  naturally  and  unaf- 
fectedly made.  But  the  man  just  back  from  a 
first  trip  on  the  continent  has  astonishment 
stamped  upon  his  face,  and  he  speaks  of  Paris 
and  of  the  Alps  as  if  he  had  discovered  both. 
Zola  is  one  of  those  practitioners  who,  big  with 
recently  acquired  knowledge,  appear  to  labor 
under  the  idea  that  the  chief  end  of  a  novel  is 
to  convey  miscellaneous  information.  This  is 
probably  a  mistake.  Novels  are  not  handbooks 
on  floriculture,  banking,  railways,  or  the  man- 
agement of  department  stores.  One  may  make 
a  parade  of  minute  details  and  endlessly  weari- 
some learning  and  gain  a  certain  credit  thereby ; 
but  what  if  the  details  and  the  learning  are 
chiefly  of  value  in  a  dictionary  of  sciences  and 
commerce  .-*  Wisdom  of  this  sort  is  to  be  spar- 
ingly used  in  a  work  of  art. 

In  these  matters  I  cannot  but  feel  that  Hardy 
has  a  reticence  so  commendable  that  praise  of  it 
is  superfluous  and  impertinent.  After  all,  men 
and  women  are  better  than  sheep  and  cows, 
and  had  he  been  more  explicit,  he  would  have 
tempted  one  to  inquire  whether  he  proposed 
making  a  story  or  a  volume  which  might  bear 
the  title  The  Wessex  Farmer's  Own  Hand-Book, 
and  containing  wise  advice  as  to  pigs,  poultry, 


92  THOMAS   HARDY 

and  the  useful  art  of  making  two  heads  of  cab- 
bage grow  where  only  one  had  grown  before, 

III 

Among  the  most  engaging  qualities  of  this 
writer  is  humor.  Hardy  is  a  humorous  man 
himself  and  entirely  appreciative  of  the  humor 
that  is  in  others.  According  to  a  distinguished 
philosopher,  wit  and  humor  produce  love. 
Hardy  must  then  be  in  daily  receipt  of  large 
measures  of  this  *  improving  passion '  from  his 
innumerable  readers  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic. 

His  humor  manifests  itself  in  a  variety  of 
ways ;  by  the  use  of  witty  epithet ;  by  ingen- 
ious description  of  a  thing  which  is  not  strik- 
ingly laughable  in  itself,  but  which  becomes 
so  from  the  closeness  of  his  rendering;  by  a 
leisurely  and  ample  account  of  a  character  with 
humorous  traits,  —  traits  which  are  brought  ar- 
tistically into  prominence  as  an  actor  heightens 
the  complexion  in  stage  make-up;  and  finally 
by  his  lively  reproductions  of  the  talk  of  village 
and  country  people,  —  a  class  of  society  whose 
everyday  speech  has  only  to  be  heard  to  be  en- 
joyed. I  do  not  pretend  that  the  sources  of 
Hardy's  humor  are  exhausted  in  this  analysis, 
but  the  majority  of  illustrations  can  be  assigned 
to  some  one  of  these  divisions. 

He  is  usually  thought  to  be  at  his  best  in  de- 
scriptions of  farmers,  village  mechanics,  labor- 


THOMAS   HARDY  93 

ers,  dairymen,  men  who  kill  pigs,  tend  sheep, 
furze-cutters,  masons,  hostlers,  loafers  who  do 
nothing  in  particular,  and  while  thus  occupied 
rail  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  set  terms.  Cer- 
tainly he  paints  these  people  with  affectionate 
fidelity.  Their  virile,  racy  talk  delights  him. 
His  reproductions  of  that  talk  are  often  in- 
tensely realistic.  Nearly  every  book  has  its 
chorus  of  human  grotesques  whose  mere  names 
are  a  source  of  mirth.  William  Worm,  Grand- 
fer  Cantle,  '  Corp'el '  Tullidge,  Christopher 
Coney,  John  Upjohn,  Robert  Creedle,  Martin 
Cannister,  Haymoss  Fry,  Robert  Lickpan,  and 
Sammy  Blore,  —  men  so  denominated  should 
stand  for  comic  things,  and  these  men  do.  Wil- 
liam Worm,  for  example,  was  deaf.  His  deaf- 
ness took  an  unusual  form  ;  he  heard  fish  frying 
in  his  head,  and  he  was  not  reticent  upon  the 
subject  of  his  infirmity.  He  usually  described 
himself  by  the  epithet  'wambling,'  and  pro- 
tested that  he  would  never  pay  the  Lord  for 
his  making,  —  a  degree  of  self-knowledge  which 
many  have  arrived  at  but  few  have  the  courage 
to  confess.  He  was  once  observed  in  the  act 
of  making  himself  'passing  civil  and  friendly 
by  overspreading  his  face  with  a  large  smile 
that  seemed  to  have  no  connection  with  the 
humor  he  was  in.'  Sympathy  because  of  his 
deafness  elicited  this  response  :  *  Ay,  I  assure 
you  that  frying  o'  fish  is  going  on  for  nights 
and  days.     And,  you  know,  sometimes  't  is  n't 


94  THOMAS   HARDY 

only  fish,  but  rashers  o'  bacon  and  inions.  Ay, 
I  can  hear  the  fat  pop  and  fizz  as  nateral  as 
life.' 

He  was  questioned  as  to  what  means  of  cure 
he  had  tried, 

'  Oh,  ay  bless  ye,  I  've  tried  everything. 
Ay,  Providence  is  a  merciful  man,  and  I  have 
hoped  he  'd  have  found  it  out  by  this  time,  liv- 
ing so  many  years  in  a  parson's  family,  too, 
as  I  have ;  but  'a  don't  seem  to  relieve  me. 
Ay,  I  be  a  poor  wambling  man,  and  life's  a 
mint  o'  trouble.' 

One  knows  not  which  to  admire  the  more, 
the  appetizing  realism  in  William  Worm's  ac- 
count of  his  infirmity,  or  the  primitive  state  of 
his  theological  views  which  allowed  him  to  look 
for  special  divine  favor  by  virtue  of  the  eccle- 
siastical conspicuousness  of  his  late  residence. 

Hardy  must  have  heard,  with  comfort  in  the 
thought  of  its  literary  possibilities,  the  follow- 
ing dialogue  on  the  cleverness  of  women.  It 
occurs  in  the  last  chapter  of  The  Woodlanders. 
A  man  who  is  always  spoken  of  as  the  *  hollow- 
turner,'  a  phrase  obviously  descriptive  of  his 
line  of  business,  which  related  to  wooden  bowls, 
spigots,  cheese -vats,  and  funnels,  talks  with 
John  Upjohn. 

*  What  women  do  know  nowadays ! '  he  says. 
'You  can't  deceive  'em  as  you  could  in  my 
time.' 

'  What  they  knowed  then  was  not  small,'  said 


THOMAS   HARDY  95 

John  Upjohn.  'Always  a  good  deal  more  than 
the  men  !  Why,  when  I  went  courting  my  wife 
that  is  now,  the  skillfulness  that  she  would 
show  in  keeping  me  on  her  pretty  side  as  she 
walked  was  beyond  all  belief.  Perhaps  you  've 
noticed  that  she 's  got  a  pretty  side  to  her  face 
as  well  as  a  plain  one  .'* ' 

"  I  can't  say  I  've  noticed  it  particular  much,' 
said  the  hollow-turner  blandly. 

'  Well,'  continued  Upjohn,  not  disconcerted, 
*  she  has.  All  women  under  the  sun  be  pret- 
tier one  side  than  t'  other.  And,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, the  pains  she  would  take  to  make  me  walk 
on  the  pretty  side  were  unending.  I  warrent 
that  whether  we  were  going  with  the  sun  or 
against  the  sun,  uphill  or  downhill,  in  wind  or 
in  lewth,  that  wart  of  hers  was  always  toward 
the  hedge,  and  that  dimple  toward  me.  There 
was  I  too  simple  to  see  her  wheelings  and 
turnings ;  and  she  so  artful  though  two  years 
younger,  that  she  could  lead  me  with  a  cotton 
thread  like  a  blind  ham ;  ...  no,  I  don't  think 
the  women  have  got  cleverer,  for  they  was 
never  otherwise.' 

IV 
These  men  have  sap  and  juice  in  their  talk. 
When  they  think  they  think  clearly.  When 
they  speak  they  express  themselves  with  an 
energy  and  directness  which  mortify  the  thin 
speech  of  conventional  persons.     Here  is  Far- 


96  THOMAS   HARDY 

frae,  the  young  Scotchman,  in  the  tap-room  of 
the  Three  Mariners  Inn  of  Casterbridge,  sing- 
ing of  his  ain  contree  with  a  pathos  quite  un- 
known in  that  part  of  the  world.  The  worthies 
who  frequent  the  place  are  deeply  moved. 
*  Danged  if  our  country  down  here  is  worth 
singing  about  like  that,'  says  Billy  Wills,  the 
glazier,  —  while  the  literal  Christopher  Coney 
inquires,  *  What  did  ye  come  away  from  yer 
own  country  for,  young  maister,  if  ye  be  so 
wownded  about  it  ? '  Then  it  occurs  to  him 
that  it  was  n't  worth  Farfrae's  while  to  leave 
the  fair  face  and  the  home  of  which  he  had 
been  singing  to  come  among  such  as  they. 
*We  be  bruckle  folk  here  —  the  best  o'  us 
hardly  honest  sometimes,  what  with  hard  win- 
ters, and  so  many  mouths  to  fill,  and  God- 
a'mighty  sending  his  little  taties  so  terrible 
small  to  fill  'em  with.  We  don't  think  about 
flowers  and  fair  faces,  not  we  —  except  in  the 
shape  of  cauliflowers  and  pigs'  chaps.' 

I  should  like  to  see  the  man  who  sat  to  Artist 
Hardy  for  the  portrait  of  Corporal  Tullidge  in 
The  Trumpet- Major.  This  worthy,  who  was 
deaf  and  talked  in  an  uncompromisingly  loud 
voice,  had  been  struck  in  the  head  by  a  piece 
of  shell  at  Valenciennes  in  '93.  His  left  arm 
had  been  smashed.  Time  and  Nature  had  done 
what  they  could,  and  under  their  beneficent  in- 
fluences the  arm  had  become  a  sort  of  anatomi- 
cal rattle-box.      People   interested  in   Corp'el 


THOMAS   HARDY  97 

Tullidge  were  allowed  to  see  his  head  and  hear 
his  arm.  The  corp'el  gave  these  private  views 
at  any  time,  and  was  quite  willing  to  show  off, 
though  the  exhibition  was  apt  to  bore  him  a 
little.  His  fellows  displayed  him  much  as  one 
would  a  *  freak '  in  a  dime  museum. 

'You  have  got  a  silver  plate  let  into  yer 
head,  have  n't  ye,  corp'el  ? '  said  Anthony  Crip- 
plestraw.  '  I  have  heard  that  the  way  they 
mortised  yer  skull  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  work- 
manship. Perhaps  the  young  woman  would  like 
to  see  the  place.' 

The  young  woman  was  Anne  Garland,  the 
sweet  heroine  of  the  story ;  and  Anne  did  n't 
want  to  see  the  silver  plate,  the  thought  of 
which  made  her  almost  faint.  Nor  could  she 
be  tempted  by  being  told  that  one  could  n't  see 
such  a  'wownd'  every  day.  Then  Cripple- 
straw,  earnest  to  please  her,  suggested  that 
Tullidge  rattle  his  arm,  which  Tullidge  did,  to 
Anne's  great  distress. 

'Oh,  it  don't  hurt  him,  bless  ye.  Do  it,  cor- 
p'el ? '  said  Cripplestraw. 

'Not  a  bit,'  said  the  corporal,  still  working 
his  arm  with  great  energy.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  perf unctoriness  in  his  manner  '  as  if  the 
glory  of  exhibition  had  lost  somewhat  of  its 
novelty,  though  he  was  still  wilUng  to  oblige.' 
Anne  resisted  all  entreaties  to  convince  herself 
by  feeling  of  the  corporal's  arm  that  the  bones 
were  *  as  loose  as  a  bag  of  ninepins,'  and  dis- 


98  THOMAS   HARDY 

played  an  anxiety  to  escape.  Whereupon  the 
corporal,  *  with  a  sense  that  his  time  was  get- 
ting wasted,'  inquired  :  *Do  she  want  to  see  or 
hear  any  more,  or  don't  she  ? ' 

This  is  but  a  single  detail  in  the  account  of 
a  party  which  Miller  Loveday  gave  to  soldier 
guests  in  honor  of  his  son  John,  —  a  descrip- 
tion the  sustained  vivacity  of  which  can  only  be 
appreciated  through  a  reading  of  those  brilliant 
early  chapters  of  the  story. 

Half  the  mirth  that  is  in  these  men  comes 
from  the  frankness  with  which  they  confess 
their  actual  thoughts.  Ask  a  man  of  average 
morals  and  average  attainments  why  he  does  n't 
go  to  church.  You  won't  know  any  better  after 
he  has  given  you  his  answer.  Ask  Nat  Chap- 
man, of  the  novel  entitled  Two  on  a  Tower,  and 
you  will  not  be  troubled  with  ambiguities.  He 
does  n't  like  to  go  because  Mr.  Torkingham's 
sermons  make  him  think  of  soul-saving  and 
other  bewildering  and  uncomfortable  topics. 
So  when  the  son  of  Torkingham's  predecessor 
asks  Nat  how  it  goes  with  him,  that  tiller  of 
the  soil  answers  promptly :  *  Pa'son  Tarkenham 
do  tease  a  feller's  conscience  that  much,  that 
church  is  no  holler-day  at  all  to  the  limbs,  as  it 
was  in  yer  reverent  father's  time  ! ' 

The  unswerving  honesty  with  which  they  as- 
sign utilitarian  motives  for  a  particular  line  of 
conduct  is  delightful.  Three  men  discuss  a 
wedding,  which  took  place  not  at  the  home  of 


THOMAS    HARDY  99 

the  bride  but  in  a  neighboring  parish,  and  was 
therefore  very  private.  The  first  does  n't  blame 
the  new  married  pair,  because  *a  wedding  at 
home  means  five  and  six  handed  reels  by  the 
hour,  and  they  do  a  man's  legs  no  good  when 
he 's  over  forty.'  A  second  corroborates  the  re- 
mark and  says  :  *  True.  Once  at  the  woman's 
house  you  can  hardly  say  nay  to  being  one  in 
a  jig,  knowing  all  the  time  that  you  be  ex- 
pected to  make  yourself  worth  your  victuals.' 

The  third  puts  the  whole  matter  beyond  the 
need  of  further  discussion  by  adding  :  *  For  my 
part,  I  like  a  good  hearty  funeral  as  well  as 
anything.  You  've  as  splendid  victuals  and 
drink  as  at  other  parties,  and  even  better.  And 
it  don't  wear  your  legs  to  stumps  in  talking 
over  a  poor  fellow's  ways  as  it  do  to  stand  up 
in  hornpipes.' 

Beings  who  talk  like  this  know  their  minds, 
—  a  rather  unwonted  circumstance  among  the 
sons  of  men,  —  and  knowing  them,  they  do  the 
next  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  which  is 
to  speak  the  minds  they  have. 

There  is  yet  another  phase  of  Hardy's  humor 
to  be  noted  :  that  humor,  sometimes  defiant, 
sometimes  philosophic,  which  concerns  death 
and  its  accompaniments.  It  cannot  be  thought 
morbid.  Hardy  is  too  fond  of  Nature  ever  to 
degenerate  into  mere  morbidity.  He  has  lived 
much  in  the  open  air,  which  always  corrects  a 
tendency  to  *  vapors.'     He  takes  little  pleasure 


loo  THOMAS   HARDY 

in  the  gruesome,  a  statement  in  support  of 
which  one  may  cite  all  his  works  up  to  1892, 
the  date  of  the  appearance  of  Tess.  This  pa- 
per includes  no  comment  in  detail  upon  the 
later  books ;  but  so  far  as  Tess  is  concerned  it 
would  be  critical  folly  to  speak  of  it  as  morbid. 
It  is  sad,  it  is  terrible,  as  Lear  is  terrible,  or 
as  any  one  of  the  great  tragedies,  written  by 
men  we  call  *  masters,'  is  terrible.  Jude  is  psy- 
chologically gruesome,  no  doubt ;  but  not  abso- 
lutely indefensible.  Even  if  it  were  as  black  a 
book  as  some  critics  have  painted  it,  the  gen- 
eral truth  of  the  statement  as  to  the  healthful- 
ness  of  Hardy's  work  would  not  be  impaired. 
This  work  judged  as  a  whole  is  sound  and  in- 
vigorating. He  cannot  be  accused  of  over-fond- 
ness for  charnel-houses  or  ghosts.  He  does 
not  discourse  of  graves  and  vaults  in  order  to 
arouse  that  terror  which  the  thought  of  death 
inspires.  It  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  making 
the  reader  uncomfortable.  If  the  grave  inter- 
ests him,  it  is  because  of  the  reflections  awak- 
ened. 'Man,  proud  man,'  needs  that  jog  to  his 
memory  which  the  pomp  of  interments  and 
aspect  of  tombstones  give.  Hardy  has  keen 
perception  of  that  humor  which  glows  in  the 
presence  of  death  and  on  the  edge  of  the  grave. 
The  living  have  such  a  tremendous  advantage 
over  the  dead,  that  they  can  neither  help  feel- 
ing it  nor  avoid  a  display  of  the  feeling.  When 
the  lion  is  buried  the  dogs  crack  jokes  at  the 


THOMAS   HARDY  loi 

funeral.  They  do  it  in  a  subdued  manner,  no 
doubt,  and  with  a  sense  of  proprieties,  but 
nevertheless  they  do  it.  Their  immense  supe- 
riority is  never  so  apparent  as  at  just  this  mo- 
ment. 

This  humor,  which  one  notes  in  Hardy,  is 
akin  to  the  humor  of  the  grave-diggers  in  Ham- 
let, but  not  so  grim.  I  have  heard  a  country 
undertaker  describe  the  details  of  the  least  at- 
tractive branch  of  his  uncomfortable  business 
with  a  pride  and  self-satisfaction  that  would 
have  been  farcical  had  not  the  subject  been  so 
depressing.  This  would  have  been  matter  for 
Hardy's  pen.  There  are  few  scenes  in  his 
books  more  telling  than  that  which  shows  the 
operations  in  the  family  vault  of  the  Luxellians, 
when  John  Smith,  Martin  Cannister,  and  old 
Simeon  prepare  the  place  for  Lady  Luxellian's 
coffin.  It  seems  hardly  wise  to  pronounce  this 
episode  as  good  as  the  grave-diggers'  scene  in 
Hamlet ;  that  would  shock  some  one  and  gain 
for  the  writer  the  reputation  of  being  enthusi- 
astic rather  than  critical.  But  I  profess  that  I 
enjoy  the  talk  of  old  Simeon  and  Martin  Can- 
nister quite  as  much  as  the  talk  of  the  first  and 
second  grave-diggers. 

Simeon,  the  shriveled  mason,  was  *  a  marvel- 
ously  old  man,  whose  skin  seemed  so  much  too 
large  for  his  body  that  it  would  not  stay  in 
position.'  He  talked  of  the  various  great  dead 
whose  coffins  filled  the  family  vault.  Here  was 
the  stately  and  irascible  Lord  George :  — 


I02  THOMAS    HARDY 

'Ah,  poor  Lord  George,'  said  the  mason, 
looking  contemplatively  at  the  huge  coffin  ;  '  he 
and  I  were  as  bitter  enemies  once  as  any  could 
be  when  one  is  a  lord  and  t'  other  only  a  mortal 
man.  Poor  fellow !  He  'd  clap  his  hand  upon 
my  shoulder  and  cuss  me  as  familiar  and  neigh- 
borly as  if  he  'd  been  a  common  chap.  Ay,  'a 
cussed  me  up  hill  and  'a  cussed  me  down  ;  and 
then  'a  would  rave  out  again  and  the  goold 
clamps  of  his  fine  new  teeth  would  glisten  in 
the  sun  like  fetters  of  brass,  while  I,  being  a 
small  man  and  poor,  was  fain  to  say  nothing  at 
all.  Such  a  strappen  fine  gentleman  as  he  was 
too  !  Yes,  I  rather  liken  en  sometimes.  But 
once  now  and  then,  when  I  looked  at  his  tower- 
ing height,  I  'd  think  in  my  inside,  "  What  a 
weight  you  '11  be,  my  lord,  for  our  arms  to  lower 
under  the  inside  of  Endelstow  church  some 
day ! " ' 

*  And  was  he .? '  inquired  a  young  laborer. 

*  He  was.  He  was  five  hundred  weight  if  'a 
were  a  pound.  What  with  his  lead,  and  his 
oak,  and  his  handles,  and  his  one  thing  and 
t'  other '  —  here  the  ancient  man  slapped  his 
hand  upon  the  cover  with  a  force  that  caused  a 
rattle  among  the  bones  inside  —  *  he  half  broke 
my  back  when  I  took  his  feet  to  lower  en  down 
the  steps  there.  "Ah,"  saith  I  to  John  there — 
did  n't  I,  John }  —  "  that  ever  one  man's  glory 
should  be  such  a  weight  upon  another  man !  " 
But  there,  I  liked  my  Lord  George  sometimes.' 


THOMAS    HARDY  103 

It  may  be  observed  that  as  Hardy  grows 
older  his  humor  becomes  more  subtle  or  quite 
dies  away,  as  if  serious  matters  pressed  upon 
his  mind,  and  there  was  no  time  for  being  jocu- 
lar. Some  day,  perhaps,  if  he  should  rise  to 
the  dignity  of  an  English  classic,  this  will  be 
spoken  of  as  his  third  period,  and  critics  will  be 
wise  in  the  elucidation  thereof.  But  just  at 
present  this  third  period  is  characterized  by  the 
terms  'pessimistic'  and  'unhealthy.' 

That  he  is  a  pessimist  in  the  colloquial  sense 
admits  of  little  question.  Nor  is  it  surprising ; 
it  is  rather  difficult  not  to  be.  Not  a  few  per- 
sons are  pessimists  and  won't  tell.  They  pre- 
serve a  fair  exterior,  but  secretly  hold  that  all 
flesh  is  grass.  Some  people  escape  the  disease 
by  virtue  of  much  philosophy  or  much  religion 
or  much  work.  Many  who  have  not  taken  up 
permanent  residence  beneath  the  roof  of  Scho- 
penhauer or  Von  Hartmann  are  occasional 
guests.  Then  there  is  that  great  mass  of  pes- 
simism which  is  the  result,  not  of  thought,  but 
of  mere  discomfort,  physical  and  super-physical. 
One  may  have  attacks  of  pessimism  from  a 
variety  of  small  causes.  A  bad  stomach  will 
produce  it.  Financial  difficulties  will  produce  it. 
The  light-minded  get  it  from  changes  in  the 
weather. 

That  note  of  melancholy  which  we  detect  in 
many  of  Hardy's  novels  is  as  it  should  be.  For 
no  man  can  apprehend  life  aright  and  still  look 


104  THOMAS   HARDY 

upon  it  as  a  carnival.  He  may  attain  serenity 
in  respect  to  it,  but  he  can  never  be  jaunty  and 
flippant.  He  can  never  slap  life  upon  the  back 
and  call  it  by  familiar  names.  He  may  hold 
that  the  world  is  indisputably  growing  better, 
but  he  will  need  to  admit  that  the  world  is  hav- 
ing a  hard  time  in  so  doing. 

Hardy  would  be  sure  of  a  reputation  for  pes- 
simism in  some  quarters  if  only  because  of  his 
attitude,  or  what  people  think  is  his  attitude, 
toward  marriage.  He  has  devoted  many  pages 
and  not  a  little  thought  to  the  problems  of  the 
relations  between  men  and  women.  He  is  con- 
siderably interested  in  questions  of  'matrimo- 
nial divergence.'  He  recognizes  that  most 
obvious  of  all  obvious  truths,  that  marriage  is 
not  always  a  success ;  nay,  more  than  this,  that 
it  is  often  a  makeshift,  an  apology,  a  pretense. 
But  he  professes  to  undertake  nothing  beyond  a 
statement  of  the  facts.  It  rests  with  the  pub- 
lic to  lay  his  statement  beside  their  experience 
and  observation,  and  thus  take  measure  of  the 
fidelity  of  his  art. 

He  notes  the  variety  of  motives  by  which 
people  are  actuated  in  the  choice  of  husbands 
and  wives.  In  the  novel  called  The  Woodland- 
ers,  Grace  Melbury,  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
though  humbly -born  yeoman,  has  unusual 
opportunities  for  a  girl  of  her  class,  and  is  edu- 
cated to  a  point  of  physical  and  intellectual 
daintiness  which  make  her   seem  superior  to 


THOMAS   HARDY  105 

her  home  environment.  Her  father  has  hoped 
that  she  will  marry  her  rustic  lover,  Giles  Win- 
terbourne,  who,  by  the  way,  is  a  man  in  every 
fibre  of  his  being.  Grace  is  quite  unspoiled  by 
her  life  at  a  fashionable  boarding  school,  but 
after  her  return  her  father  feels  (and  Hardy 
makes  the  reader  feel)  that  in  marrying  Giles 
she  will  sacrifice  herself.  She  marries  Dr. 
Fitzspiers,  a  brilliant  young  physician,  recently 
come  into  the  neighborhood,  and  in  so  doing 
she  chooses  for  the  worse.  The  character  of 
Dr.  Fitzspiers  is  summarized  in  a  statement  he 
once  made  (presumably  to  a  male  friend)  that 
*  on  one  occasion  he  had  noticed  himself  to  be 
possessed  by  five  distinct  infatuations  at  the 
same  time.' 

His  flagrant  infidelities  bring  about  a  tem- 
porary separation  ;  Grace  is  not  able  to  compre- 
hend 'such  double  and  treble-barreled  hearts.' 
When  finally  they  are  reunited  the  life-problem 
of  each  still  awaits  an  adequate  solution.  For 
the  motive  which  brings  the  girl  back  to  her 
husband  is  only  a  more  complex  phase  of  the 
same  motive  which  chiefly  prompted  her  to 
marry  him.  Hardy  says  that  Fitzspiers  as  a 
lover  acted  upon  Grace  'like  a  dram.'  His 
presence  '  threw  her  into  an  atmosphere  which 
biased  her  doings  until  the  influence  was  over.' 
Afterward  she  felt  '  something  of  the  nature  of 
regret  for  the  mood  she  had  experienced.' 

But  this  same  story  contains  two  other  char- 


lo6  THOMAS   HARDY 

acters  who  are  unmatched  in  fiction  as  the 
incarnation  of  pure  love  and  self-forgetfulness. 
Giles  Winterbourne,  whose  devotion  to  Grace 
is  without  wish  for  happiness  which  shall  not 
imply  a  greater  happiness  for  her,  dies  that 
no  breath  of  suspicion  may  fall  upon  her.  He 
in  tiu^n  is  loved  by  Marty  South  with  a  com- 
pleteness which  destroys  all  thought  of  self. 
She  enjoys  no  measure  of  reward  while  Winter- 
bourne  lives.  He  never  knows  of  Marty's  love. 
But  in  that  last  fine  paragraph  of  this  remark- 
able book,  when  the  poor  girl  places  the  flow- 
ers upon  his  grave  she  utters  a  little  lament 
which  for  beauty,  pathos,  and  realistic  simpli- 
city is  without  parallel  in  modern  fiction. 
Hardy  was  never  more  of  an  artist  than  when 
writing  the  last  chapter  of  The  Woodlanders. 

After  all,  a  book  in  which  unselfish  love  is 
described  in  terms  at  once  just  and  noble  can- 
not be  dangerously  pessimistic,  even  if  it  also 
takes  cognizance  of  such  hopeless  cases  as  a 
man  with  a  chronic  tendency  to  fluctuations  of 
the  heart. 

The  matter  may  be  put  briefly  thus  :  In 
Hardy's  novels  one  sees  the  artistic  result  of 
an  effort  to  paint  life  as  it  is,  with  much  of  its 
joy  and  a  deal  of  its  sorrow,  with  its  good  peo- 
ple and  its  selfish  people,  its  positive  characters 
and  its  Laodiceans,  its  men  and  women  who 
dominate  circumstances,  and  its  unhappy  ones 
who  are  submerged.      These   books  are  the 


THOMAS   HARDY  107 

record  of  what  a  clear-eyed,  sane,  vigorous, 
sympathetic,  humorous  man  knows  about  life ; 
a  man  too  conscious  of  things  as  they  are  to 
wish  grossly  to  exaggerate  or  to  disguise  them ; 
and  at  the  same  time  so  entirely  aware  how 
much  poetry  as  well  as  irony  God  has  mingled 
in  the  order  of  the  world  as  to  be  incapable  of 
concealing  that  fact  either.  He  is  of  such 
ample  intellectual  frame  that  he  makes  the 
petty  contentions  of  literary  schools  appear 
foolish.  I  find  a  measure  of  Hardy's  mind  in 
passages  which  set  forth  his  conception  of  the 
preciousness  of  life,  no  matter  what  the  form 
in  which  life  expresses  itself.  He  is  pecul- 
iarly tender  toward  brute  creation.  In  that 
paragraph  which  describes  Tess  discovering 
the  wounded  pheasants  in  the  wood.  Hardy 
suggests  the  thought,  quite  new  to  many  peo- 
ple, that  chivalry  is  not  confined  to  the  rela- 
tions of  man  to  man  or  of  man  to  woman. 
There  are  still  weaker  fellow-creatures  in  Na- 
ture's teeming  family.  What  if  we  are  unman- 
nerly or  unchivalrous  toward  them  ? 

He  abounds  in  all  manner  of  pithy  sayings, 
many  of  them  wise,  a  few  of  them  profound, 
and  not  one  which  is  unworthy  a  second  read- 
ing. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  escape  the 
doubtful  honor  of  being  dispersedly  set  forth  in 
a  'Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Thomas  Hardy.'  Such 
books  are  a  depressing  species  of  literature  and 
seem  chiefly  designed  to  be  given  away  at  holi- 


io8  THOMAS   HARDY 

day  time  to  acquaintances  who  are  too  impor- 
tant to  be  put  off  with  Christmas  cards,  and 
not  important  enough  to  be  supplied  with  gifts 
of  a  calculable  value. 

One  must  praise  the  immense  spirit  and  viva- 
city of  scenes  where  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  struggle,  a  moral  duel,  goes  on.  In  such 
passages  every  power  at  the  writer's  command 
is  needed ;  unerring  directness  of  thought,  and 
words  which  clothe  this  thought  as  an  athlete's 
garments  fit  the  body.  Everything  must 
count,  and  the  movement  of  the  narrative  must 
be  sustained  to  the  utmost.  The  chess-playing 
scene  between  Elfride  and  Knight  in  A  Pair 
of  Blue  Eyes  is  an  illustration.  Sergeant  Troy 
displaying  his  skill  in  handling  the  sword  — 
weaving  his  spell  about  Bathsheba  in  true 
snake  fashion,  is  another  example.  Still  more 
brilliant  is  the  gambling  scene  in  The  Return 
of  the  Native,  where  Wildeve  and  Diggory 
Venn,  out  on  the  heath  in  the  night,  throw  dice 
by  the  light  of  a  lantern  for  Thomasin's  money. 
Venn,  the  reddleman,  in  the  Mephistophelian 
garb  of  his  profession,  is  the  incarnation  of  a 
good  spirit,  and  wins  the  guineas  from  the 
clutch  of  the  spendthrift  husband.  The  scene 
is  immensely  dramatic,  with  its  accompani- 
ments of  blackness  and  silence,  Wildeve's  hag- 
gard face,  the  circle  of  ponies,  known  as  heath- 
croppers,  which  are  attracted  by  the  light,  the 
death's-head  moth  which  extinguishes  the  can- 


THOMAS   HARDY  109 

die,  and  the  finish  of  the  game  by  the  light  of 
glow-worms.  It  is  a  glorious  bit  of  writing  in 
true  bravura  style. 

His  books  have  a  quality  which  I  shall  ven- 
ture to  call  *  spaciousness,'  in  the  hope  that  the 
word  conveys  the  meaning  I  try  to  express.  It 
is  obvious  that  there  is  a  difference  between 
books  which  are  large  and  books  which  are 
merely  long.  The  one  epithet  refers  to  atmo- 
sphere, the  other  to  number  of  pages.  Hardy 
writes  large  books.  There  is  room  in  them 
for  the  reader  to  expand  his  mind.  They  are 
distinctly  out-of-door  books,  'not  smacking  of 
the  cloister  or  the  library.'  In  reading  them 
one  has  a  feeling  that  the  vault  of  heaven  is 
very  high,  and  that  the  earth  stretches  away  to 
interminable  distances  upon  all  sides.  This 
quality  of  largeness  is  not  dependent  upon 
number  of  pages;  nor  is  length  absolute  as 
applied  to  books.  A  book  may  contain  one 
hundred  pages  and  still  be  ninety-nine  pages 
too  long,  for  the  reason  that  its  truth,  its  les- 
son, its  literary  virtue,  are  not  greater  than 
might  be  expressed  in  a  single  page. 

Spaciousness  is  in  even  less  degree  dependent 
upon  miles.  The  narrowness,  geographically 
speaking,  of  Hardy's  range  of  expression  is 
notable.  There  is  much  contrast  between  him 
and  Stevenson  in  this  respect.  The  Scotch- 
man has  embodied  in  his  fine  books  the  experi- 
ences of  life  in  a  dozen  different  quarters  of 


no  THOMAS   HARDY 

the  globe.  Hardy,  with  more  robust  health, 
has  traveled  from  Portland  to  Bath,  ajid  from 
*  Wintoncester  '  to  *  Exonbury,'  —  journeys 
hardly  more  serious  than  from  the  blue  bed  to 
the  brown.  And  it  is  better  thus.  No  reader 
of  The  Return  of  the  Native  would  have  been 
content  that  Eustacia  Vye  should  persuade  her 
husband  back  to  Paris.  Rather  than  the  boule- 
vards one  prefers  Egdon  heath,  as  Hardy  paints 
it,  'the  great  inviolate  place,'  the  'untamable 
Ishmaelitish  thing '  which  its  arch-enemy.  Civi- 
lization, could  not  subdue. 

He  is  without  question  one  of  the  best  writ- 
ers of  our  time,  whether  for  comedy  or  for 
tragedy ;  and  for  extravaganza,  too,  as  witness 
his  lively  farce  called  The  Hand  of  Ethelberta. 
He  can  write  dialogue  or  description.  He  is 
so  excellent  in  either  that  either,  as  you  read 
it,  appears  to  make  for  your  highest  pleasure. 
If  his  characters  talk,  you  would  gladly  have 
them  talk  to  the  end  of  the  book.  If  he,  the 
author,  speaks,  you  would  not  wish  to  inter- 
rupt. More  than  most  skillful  writers,  he  pre- 
serves that  just  balance  between  narrative  and 
colloquy. 

His  best  novels  prior  to  the  appearance  of 
Tess,  are  The  Woodlanders,  Far  from  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,  The  Return  of  the  Native,  and 
The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge.  These  four  are 
the  bulwarks  of  his  reputation,  while  a  separate 
and  great  fame  might  be  based  alone  on  that 


THOMAS   HARDY  in 

powerful  tragedy  called  by  its  author  Tess  of 
the  U  Urbervilles. 

Criticism  which  glorifies  any  one  book  of  a 
given  author  at  the  expense  of  all  his  other 
books  is  profitless,  if  not  dangerous.  More- 
over, it  is  dangerous  to  have  a  favorite  author 
as  well  as  a  favorite  book  of  that  favorite 
author.  A  man's  choice  of  books,  like  his 
choice  of  friends,  is  usually  inexplicable  to 
everybody  but  himself.  However,  the  chief 
object  in  recommending  books  is  to  make  con- 
verts to  the  gospel  of  literature  according  to 
the  writer  of  these  books.  For  which  legiti- 
mate purpose  I  would  recommend  to  the  reader 
who  has  hitherto  denied  himself  the  pleasure  of 
an  acquaintance  with  Thomas  Hardy,  the  two 
volumes  known  as  The  Woodlanders  and  The 
Return  of  the  Native.  The  first  of  these  is 
the  more  genial  because  it  presents  a  more 
genial  side  of  Nature.  But  the  other  is  a  noble 
piece  of  literary  workmanship,  a  powerful  book, 
ingeniously  framed,  with  every  detail  strongly 
realized ;  a  book  which  is  dramatic,  humorous, 
sincere  in  its  pathos,  rich  in  its  word-coloring, 
eloquent  in  its  descriptive  passages ;  a  book 
which  embodies  so  much  of  life  and  poetry  that 
one  has  a  feeling  of  mental  exaltation  as  he 
reads. 

Surely  it  is  not  wise  in  the  critical  Jeremiahs 
so  despairingly  to  lift  up  their  voices,  and  so 
strenuously  to  bewail  the  condition  of  the  lit- 


112  THOMAS   HARDY 

erature  of  the  time.  The  Hterature  of  the  time 
is  very  well,  as  they  would  see  could  they  but 
turn  their  fascinated  gaze  from  the  meretri- 
cious and  spectacular  elements  of  that  litera- 
ture to  the  work  of  Thomas  Hardy  and  George 
Meredith.  With  such  men  among  the  most 
influential  in  modem  letters,  and  with  Barrie 
and  Stevenson  among  the  idols  of  the  reading 
world,  it  would  seem  that  the  office  of  pub- 
lic Jeremiah  should  be  continued  rather  from 
courtesy  than  from  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
the  needs  of  the  hour. 


A   READING    IN    THE    LETTERS    OF 
JOHN   KEATS 

One  would  like  to  know  whether  a  first  read- 
ing in  the  letters  of  Keats  does  not  generally 
produce  something  akin  to  a  severe  mental 
shock.  It  is  a  sensation  which  presently  be- 
comes agreeable,  being  in  that  respect  like  a 
plunge  into  cold  water,  but  it  is  undeniably  a 
shock.  Most  readers  of  Keats,  knowing  him, 
as  he  should  be  known,  by  his  poetry,  have  not 
the  remotest  conception  of  him  as  he  shows 
himself  in  his  letters.  Hence  they  are  unpre- 
pared for  this  splendid  exhibition  of  virile  intel- 
lectual health.  Not  that  they  think  of  him  as 
morbid,  —  his  poetry  surely  could  not  make 
this  impression,  —  but  rather  that  the  popular 
conception  of  him  is,  after  all  these  years,  a 
legendary  Keats,  the  poet  who  was  killed  by 
reviewers,  the  Keats  of  Shelley's  preface  to 
the  Adonais,  the  Keats  whose  story  is  written 
large  in  the  world's  book  of  Pity  and  of  Death. 
When  the  readers  are  confronted  with  a  fair 
portrait  of  the  real  man,  it  makes  them  rub 
their  eyes.  Nay,  more,  it  embarrasses  them. 
To  find  themselves  guilty  of  having  pitied  one 


114  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

who  stood  in  small  need  of  pity  is  mortifying. 
In  plain  terms,  they  have  systematically  be- 
stowed (or  have  attempted  to  bestow)  alms  on 
a  man  whose  income  at  its  least  was  bigger 
than  any  his  patrons  could  boast.  Small  won- 
der that  now  and  then  you  find  a  reader,  with 
large  capacity  for  the  sentimental,  who  looks 
back  with  terror  to  his  first  dip  into  the  let- 
ters. 

The  legendary  Keats  dies  hard  ;  or  perhaps 
we  would  better  say  that  when  he  seems  to  be 
dying  he  is  simply,  in  the  good  old  fashion  of 
legends,  taking  out  a  new  lease  of  life.  For  it 
is  as  true  now  as  when  the  sentence  was  first 
penned,  that  *  a  mixture  of  a  lie  doth  ever  add 
pleasure.'  Among  the  many  readers  of  good 
books,  there  will  always  be  some  whose  notions 
of  the  poetical  proprieties  suffer  greatly  by  the 
facts  of  Keats's  history.  It  is  so  much  plea- 
santer  to  them  to  think  that  the  poet's  sensi- 
tive spirit  was  wounded  to  death  by  bitter 
words  than  to  know  that  he  was  carried  off  by 
pulmonary  disease.  But  when  they  are  tired 
of  reading  Endymion,  Isabella,  and  The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes  in  the  light  of  this  incorrect  concep- 
tion, let  them  try  a  new  reading  in  the  light 
of  the  letters,  and  the  masculinity  of  this  very 
robust  young  maker  of  poetry  will  prove  re- 
freshing. 

The  letters  are  in  every  respect  good  read- 
ing.    Rather  than  deplore  their  frankness,  as 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS  115 

one  critic  has  done,  we  ought  to  rejoice  in  their 
utter  want  of  affectation,  in  their  boyish  hon- 
esty. At  every  turn  there  is  something  to 
amuse  or  to  startle  one  into  thinking.  We  are 
carried  back  in  a  vivid  way  to  the  period  of 
their  composition.  Not  a  Httle  of  the  pulsing 
life  of  that  time  throbs  anew,  and  we  catch 
glimpses  of  notable  figures.  Often,  the  feeling 
is  that  we  have  been  called  in  haste  to  a  win- 
dow to  look  at  some  celebrity  passing  by,  and 
have  arrived  just  in  time  to  see  him  turn  the 
corner.  What  a  touch  of  reality,  for  example, 
does  one  get  in  reading  that  *  Wordsworth  went 
rather  huff' d  out  of  town  ' !  One  is  not  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  of  Wordsworth  as  capable  of 
being  'huffed,'  but  the  writer  of  the  letters 
feared  that  he  was.  All  of  Keats's  petty  anxi- 
eties and  small  doings,  as  well  as  his  aspirations 
and  his  greatest  dreams,  are  set  down  here  in 
black  on  white.  It  is  a  complete  and  charm- 
ing revelation  of  the  man.  One  learns  how  he 
*  went  to  Hazlitt's  lecture  on  Poetry,  and  got 
there  just  as  they  were  coming  out ; '  how  he 
was  insulted  at  the  theatre,  and  would  n't  tell 
his  brothers ;  how  it  vexed  him  because  the 
Irish  servant  said  that  his  picture  of  Shake- 
speare looked  exactly  like  her  father,  only  '  her 
father  had  more  color  than  the  engraving ; ' 
how  he  filled  in  the  time  while  waiting  for  the 
stage  to  start  by  counting  the  buns  and  tarts 
in  a  pastry-cook's  window,  'and  had  just  begun 


Il6  LETTERS    OF   JOHN    KEATS 

on  the  jellies  ; '  how  indignant  he  was  at  being 
spoken  of  as  '  quite  the  little  poet ; '  how  he  sat 
in  a  hatter's  shop  in  the  Poultry  while  Mr.  Ab- 
bey read  him  some  extracts  from  Lord  Byron's 
'last  flash  poem,'  Don  Juan ;  how  some  beef 
was  carved  exactly  to  suit  his  appetite,  as  if  he 
'  had  been  measured  for  it ; '  how  he  dined  with 
Horace  Smith  and  his  brothers  and  some  other 
young  gentlemen  of  fashion,  and  thought  them 
all  hopelessly  affected  ;  in  a  word,  almost  any- 
thing you  want  to  know  about  John  Keats  can 
be  found  in  these  letters.  They  are  of  more 
value  than  all  the  'recollections'  of  all  his 
friends  put  together.  In  their  breezy  good- 
nature and  cheerfulness  they  are  a  fine  anti- 
dote to  the  impression  one  gets  of  him  in  Hay- 
don's  account,  'lying  in  a  white  bed  with  a 
book,  hectic  and  on  his  back,  irritable  at  his 
weakness  and  wounded  at  the  way  he  had  been 
used.  He  seemed  to  be  going  out  of  life  with 
a  contempt  for  this  world,  and  no  hopes  of  the 
other.  I  told  him  to  be  calm,  but  he  muttered 
that  if  he  did  not  soon  get  better  he  would 
destroy  himself.'  This  is  taking  Keats  at  his 
worst.  It  is  well  enough  to  know  that  he 
seemed  to  Haydon  as  Haydon  has  described 
him,  but  few  men  appear  to  advantage  when 
they  are  desperately  ill.  Turn  to  the  letters 
written  during  his  tour  in  Scotland,  when  he 
walked  twenty  miles  a  day,  climbed  Ben  Nevis, 
so  fatigued  himself  that,  as   he  told   Fanny 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  117 

Keats,  *  when  I  am  asleep  you  might  sew  my 
nose  to  my  great  toe  and  trundle  me  around 
the  town,  like  a  Hoop,  without  waking  me. 
Then  I  get  so  hungry  a  Ham  goes  but  a  very 
little  way,  and  fowls  are  like  Larks  to  me.  .  .  . 
I  take  a  whole  string  of  Pork  Sausages  down 
as  easily  as  a  Pen'orth  of  Lady's  fingers.'  And 
then  he  bewails  the  fact  that  when  he  arrives 
in  the  Highlands  he  will  have  to  be  contented 
*with  an  acre  or  two  of  oaten  cake,  a  hogshead 
of  Milk,  and  a  Cloaths  basket  of  Eggs  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  night.'  Here  is  the  active  Keats, 
of  honest  mundane  tastes  and  an  athletic  dispo- 
sition, who  threatens  '  to  cut  all  sick  people  if 
they  do  not  make  up  their  minds  to  cut  Sick- 
ness.' 

Indeed,  the  letters  are  so  pleasant  and  amus- 
ing in  the  way  they  exhibit  minor  traits,  habits, 
prejudices,  and  the  like,  that  it  is  a  temptation 
to  dwell  upon  these  things.  How  we  love  a 
man's  weaknesses  —  if  we  share  them  !  I  do 
not  know  that  Keats  would  have  given  occasion 
for  an  anecdote  like  that  told  of  a  certain  book- 
loving  actor,  whose  best  friend,  when  urged  to 
join  the  chorus  of  praise  that  was  quite  uni- 
versally sung  to  this  actor's  virtues,  acquiesced 
by  saying  amiably,  *  Mr.  Blank  undoubtedly  has 
genius,  but  he  can't  spell ; '  yet  there  are  com- 
forting evidences  that  Keats  was  no  servile  fol- 
lower of  the  *  monster  Conventionality '  even  in 
his  spelling,  while  in  respect  to  the  use  of  capi- 


Il8  LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS 

tals  he  was  a  law  unto  himself.  He  sprinkled 
them  through  his  correspondence  with  a  lavish 
hand,  though  at  times  he  grew  so  economical 
that,  as  one  of  his  editors  remarks,  he  would 
spell  Romeo  with  a  small  r,  Irishman  with  a 
small  /,  and  God  with  a  small  g. 

It  is  also  a  pleasure  to  find  that,  with  his 
other  failings,  he  had  a  touch  of  book-madness. 
There  was  in  him  the  making  of  a  first-class 
bibliophile.  He  speaks  with  rapture  of  his 
black-letter  Chaucer,  which  he  proposes  to  have 
bound  *in  Gothique,'  so  as  to  unmodernize  as 
much  as  possible  its  outward  appearance.  But 
to  Keats  books  were  literature  or  they  were 
not  literature,  and  one  cannot  think  that  his 
affections  would  twine  about  ever  so  bookish  a 
volume  which  was  merely  *  curious.' 

One  reads  with  sympathetic  amusement  of 
Keats's  genuine  and  natural  horror  of  paying 
the  same  bill  twice,  'there  not  being  a  more 
unpleasant  thing  in  the  world  (saving  a  thou- 
sand and  one  others).'  The  necessity  of  pre- 
serving adequate  evidence  that  a  bill  had  been 
paid  was  uppermost  in  his  thought  quite  fre- 
quently ;  and  once  when,  at  Leigh  Hunt's  in- 
stance, sundry  packages  of  papers  belonging 
to  that  eminently  methodical  and  businesslike 
man  of  letters  were  to  be  sorted  out  and  in 
part  destroyed,  Keats  refused  to  bum  any,  '  for 
fear  of  demolishing  receipts.' 

But  the  reader  will  chance  upon  few  more 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  119 

humorous  passages  than  that  in  which  the  poet 
tells  his  brother  George  how  he  cures  himself 
of  the  blues,  and  at  the  same  time  spurs  his 
flagging  powers  of  invention :  *  Whenever  I 
find  myself  growing  vaporish  I  rouse  myself, 
wash  and  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  brush  my  hair 
and  clothes,  tie  my  shoe-strings  neatly,  and,  in 
fact,  adonize,  as  if  I  were  going  out  —  then  all 
clean  and  comfortable,  I  sit  down  to  write. 
This  I  find  the  greatest  relief.*  The  virtues 
of  a  clean  shirt  have  often  been  sung,  but  it 
remained  for  Keats  to  show  what  a  change  of 
linen  and  a  general  adonizing  could  do  in  the 
way  of  furnishing  poetic  stimulus.  This  is  bet- 
ter than  coffee,  brandy,  absinthe,  or  falling  in 
love ;  and  it  prompts  one  to  think  anew  that 
the  English  poets,  taking  them  as  a  whole, 
were  a  marvelously  healthy  and  sensible  breed 
of  men. 

It  is,  however,  in  respect  to  the  light  they 
throw  upon  the  poet's  literary  life  that  the  let- 
ters are  of  highest  significance.  They  gratify 
to  a  reasonable  extent  that  natural  desire  we 
all  have  to  see  authorship  in  the  act.  The  pro- 
cesses by  which  genius  brings  things  to  pass 
are  so  mysterious  that  our  curiosity  is  continu- 
ally piqued ;  and  our  failure  to  get  at  the  real 
thing  prompts  us  to  be  more  or  less  content 
with  mere  externals.  If  we  may  not  hope  to 
see  the  actual  process  of  making  poetry,  we 
may  at  least  study  the  poet's  manuscript.     By 


120  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

knowing  of  his  habits  of  work  we  flatter  our- 
selves that  we  are  a  little  nearer  the  secret  of 
his  power. 

We  must  bear  in  mind  that  Keats  was  a  boy, 
always  a  boy,  and  that  he  died  before  he  quite 
got  out  of  boyhood.  To  be  sure,  most  boys  of 
twenty-six  would  resent  being  described  by  so 
juvenile  a  term.  But  one  must  have  success- 
fully passed  twenty-six  without  doing  anything 
in  particular  to  understand  how  exceedingly 
young  twenty-six  is.  And  to  have  wrought  so 
well  in  so  short  a  time,  Keats  must  have  had 
from  the  first  a  clear  and  noble  conception  of 
the  nature  of  his  work,  as  he  must  also  have 
displayed  extraordinary  diligence  in  the  doing 
of  it.  Perhaps  these  points  are  too  obvious, 
and  of  a  sort  which  would  naturally  occur  to 
any  one ;  but  it  will  be  none  the  less  interest- 
ing to  see  how  the  letters  bear  witness  to  their 
truth. 

In  the  first  place,  Keats  was  anything  but  a 
loafer  at  literature.  He  seems  never  to  have 
dawdled.  A  fine  healthiness  is  apparent  in  all 
allusions  to  his  processes  of  work.  *  I  read  and 
write  about  eight  hours  a  day,'  he  remarks  in 
a  letter  to  Haydon.  Bailey,  Keats's  Oxford 
friend,  says  that  the  fellow  would  go  to  his 
writing-desk  soon  after  breakfast,  and  stay 
there  until  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. He  was  then  writing  Endymion.  His 
stint  was  about  '  fifty  lines  a  day,  .  .  .  and  he 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS  121 

wrote  with  as  much  regularity,  and  apparently 
with  as  much  ease,  as  he  wrote  his  letters.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  he  fell  short  of  his  allotted  task,  but 
not  often,  and  he  would  make  it  up  another 
day.  But  he  never  forced  himself,'  Bailey 
quotes,  in  connection  with  this,  Keats's  own 
remark  to  the  effect  that  poetry  would  better 
not  come  at  all  than  not  to  come  *  as  naturally 
as  the  leaves  of  a  tree.'  Whether  this  sponta- 
neity of  production  was  as  great  as  that  of 
some  other  poets  of  his  time  may  be  ques- 
tioned; but  he  would  never  have  deserved 
Tom  Nash's  sneer  at  those  writers  who  can 
only  produce  by  'sleeping  betwixt  every  sen- 
tence.' Keats  had  in  no  small  degree  the  *  fine 
extemporal  vein'  with  'invention  quicker  than 
his  eye.' 

We  uncritically  feel  that  it  could  hardly  have 
been  otherwise  in  the  case  of  one  with  whom 
poetry  was  a  passion.  Keats  had  an  infinite 
hunger  and  thirst  for  good  poetry.  His  poeti- 
cal life,  both  in  the  receptive  and  productive 
phases  of  it,  was  intense.  Poetry  was  meat 
and  drink  to  him.  He  could  even  urge  his 
friend  Reynolds  to  talk  about  it  to  him,  much 
as  one  might  beg  a  trusted  friend  to  talk  about 
one's  lady-love,  and  with  the  confidence  that 
only  the  fitting  thing  would  be  spoken.  *  When- 
ever you  write,  say  a  word  or  two  on  some 
passage  in  Shakespeare  which  may  have  come 
rather  new  to  you,' — a  sentence  which  shows 


122  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

his  faith  in  the  many-sidedness  of  the  great 
poetry.  Shakespeare  was  forever  'coming 
new '  to  him,  and  he  was  *  haunted '  by  particu- 
lar passages.  He  loved  to  fill  the  cup  of  his 
imagination  with  the  splendors  of  the  best 
poets  until  the  cup  overflowed.  '  I  find  I  can- 
not exist  without  Poetry,  —  without  eternal 
Poetry ;  half  the  day  will  not  do,  —  the  whole 
of  it ;  I  began  with  a  little,  but  habit  has  made 
me  a  leviathan.'  He  tells  Leigh  Hunt,  in  a 
letter  written  from  Margate,  that  he  thought  so 
much  about  poetry,  and  *so  long  together,' 
that  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  at  night. 
Whether  this  meant  in  working  out  ideas  of  his 
own,  or  living  over  the  thoughts  of  other  poets, 
is  of  little  importance ;  the  remark  shows  how 
deeply  the  roots  of  his  life  were  imbedded  in 
poetical  soil.  He  loved  a  debauch  in  the  verse 
of  masters  of  his  art.  He  could  intoxicate  him- 
self with  Shakespeare's  sonnets.  He  rioted  in 
'all  their  fine  things  said  unconsciously.'  We 
are  tempted  to  say,  by  just  so  much  as  he  had 
large  reverence  for  these  men,  by  just  so  much 
he  was  of  them. 

Undoubtedly,  this  ability  to  be  moved  by 
strong  imaginative  work  may  be  abused  until  it 
becomes  a  maudlin  and  quite  disordered  senti- 
ment. Keats  was  too  well  balanced  to  be  car- 
ried into  appreciative  excesses.  He  knew  that 
mere  yearning  could  not  make  a  poet  of  one 
any  more  than  mere  ambition  could.    He  under- 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  123 

stood  the  limits  of  ambition  as  a  force  in  litera- 
ture. Keats' s  ambition  trembled  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Keats's  conception  of  the  magnitude 
of  the  poetic  office.  *  I  have  asked  myself  so 
often  why  I  should  be  a  poet  more  than  other 
men,  seeing  how  great  a  thing  it  is.'  Yet  he 
had  honest  confidence.  One  cannot  help  lik- 
ing him  for  the  fine  audacity  with  which  he 
pronounces  his  own  work  good,  —  better  even 
than  that  of  a  certain  other  great  name  in  Eng- 
lish literature ;  one  cannot  help  loving  him  for 
the  sweet  humility  with  which  he  accepts  the 
view  that,  after  all,  success  or  failure  lies  en- 
tirely without  the  range  of  self -choosing.  There 
is  a  point  of  view  from  which  it  is  folly  to  hold 
a  poet  responsible  even  for  his  own  poetry,  and 
when  Endymion  was  spoken  of  as  'slipshod' 
Keats  could  reply,  '  That  it  is  so  is  no  fault  of 
mine.  .  .  .  The  Genius  of  Poetry  must  work 
out  its  own  salvation  in  a  man.  .  .  .  That 
which  is  creative  must  create  itself.  In  Endy- 
mion I  leaped  headlong  into  the  sea,  and 
thereby  have  become  better  acquainted  with 
the  soundings,  the  quicksands,  and  the  rocks, 
than  if  I  had  stayed  upon  the  green  shore,  and 
piped  a  silly  pipe,  and  took  tea  and  comfortable 
advice.  I  was  never  afraid  of  failure ;  for  I 
would  sooner  fail  than  not  be  among  the  great- 
est.' 

Well  might  a  man  who  could  write  that  last 
sentence  look  upon  poetry  not  only  as  a  respon- 


124  LETTERS   OF  JOHN  KEATS 

sible,  but  as  a  dangerous  pursuit.  Men  who 
aspire  to  be  poets  are  gamblers.  In  all  the 
lotteries  of  the  literary  life  none  is  so  uncer- 
tain as  this.  A  million  chances  that  you  don't 
win  the  prize  to  one  chance  that  you  do.  It  is 
a  curious  thing  that  ever  so  thoughtful  and 
conscientious  an  author  may  not  know  whether 
he  is  making  literature  or  merely  writing  verse. 
He  conforms  to  all  the  canons  of  taste  in  his 
own  day ;  he  is  devout  and  reverent ;  he  shuns 
excesses  of  diction,  and  he  courts  originality ; 
his  verse  seems  to  himself  and  to  his  unflatter- 
ing friends  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  his  time, 
but  twenty  years  later  it  is  old-fashioned. 
Keats,  with  all  his  feeling  of  certainty,  stood 
with  head  uncovered  before  that  power  which 
gives  poetical  gifts  to  one,  and  withholds  them 
from  another.  Above  all  would  he  avoid  self- 
delusion  in  these  things.  '  There  is  no  greater 
Sin  after  the  seven  deadly  than  to  flatter  one's 
self  into  an  idea  of  being  a  great  Poet.' 

Keats,  if  one  may  judge  from  a  letter  written 
to  John  Taylor  in  February,  1818,  had  little 
expectation  that  his  Endymion  was  going  to  be 
met  with  universal  plaudits.  He  doubtless 
looked  for  fair  treatment.  He  probably  had 
no  thought  of  being  sneeringly  addressed  as 
'Johnny,'  or  of  getting  recommendations  to 
return  to  his  'plasters,  pills,  and  ointment 
boxes.'  In  fact,  he  looked  upon  the  issue  as 
entirely  problematical.     He  seemed  willing  to 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  125 

take  it  for  granted  that  in  Endymion  he  had 
but  moved  into  the  go-cart  from  the  leading- 
strings.  'If  Endymion  serves  me  for  a  pio- 
neer, perhaps  I  ought  to  be  content,  for  thank 
God  I  can  read  and  perhaps  understand  Shake- 
speare to  his  depths ;  and  I  have,  I  am  sure, 
many  friends  who  if  I  fail  will  attribute  any 
change  in  my  life  to  humbleness  rather  than 
pride,  —  to  a  cowering  under  the  wings  of  great 
poets  rather  than  to  bitterness  that  I  am  not 
appreciated.'  And  for  evidence  of  any  especial 
bitterness  because  of  the  lashing  he  received 
one  will  search  the  letters  in  vain.  Keats  was 
manly  and  good-humored,  most  of  his  morbidity 
being  referred  directly  to  his  ill  health.  The 
trouncing  he  had  at  the  hands  of  the  reviewers 
was  no  more  violent  than  the  one  administered 
to  Tennyson  by  Professor  Wilson.  Critics, 
good  and  bad,  can  do  much  harm.  They  may 
terrorize  a  timid  spirit.  But  a  greater  terror 
than  the  fear  of  the  reviewers  hung  over  the 
head  of  John  Keats.  He  stood  in  awe  of  his 
own  artistic  and  poetic  sense.  He  could  say 
with  truth  that  his  own  domestic  criticism  had 
given  him  pain  without  comparison  beyond 
what  Blackwood  or  the  Quarterly  could  possi- 
bly inflict.  If  he  had  had  any  terrible  heart- 
burning over  their  malignancy,  if  he  had  felt 
that  his  life  was  poisoned,  he  could  hardly  have 
forborne  some  allusion  to  it  in  his  letters  to  his 
brother,  George  Keats.     But  he  is  almost  im- 


126  LETTERS   OF  JOHN  KEATS 

perturbable.  He  talks  of  the  episode  freely, 
says  that  he  has  been  urged  to  publish  his  Pot 
of  Basil  as  a  reply  to  the  reviewers,  has  no  idea 
that  he  can  be  made  ridiculous  by  abuse,  notes 
the  futility  of  attacks  of  this  kind,  and  then, 
with  a  serene  conviction  that  is  irresistible, 
adds,  *I  think  I  shall  be  among  the  English 
Poets  after  my  death ! ' 

Such  egoism  of  genius  is  magnificent ;  the 
more  so  as  it  appears  in  Keats  because  it  runs 
parallel  with  deep  humility  in  the  presence  of 
the  masters  of  his  art.  Naturally,  the  masters 
who  were  in  their  graves  were  the  ones  he  rev- 
erenced the  most  and  read  without  stint.  But 
it  was  by  no  means  essential  that  a  poet  be  a 
dead  poet  before  Keats  did  him  homage.  It 
is  impossible  to  think  that  Keats's  attitude  to- 
wards Wordsworth  was  other  than  finely  appre- 
ciative, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  applauded 
Reynolds's  Peter  Bell,  and  inquired  almost  petu- 
lantly why  one  should  be  teased  with  Words- 
worth's '  Matthew  with  a  bough  of  wilding  in 
his  hand.'  But  it  is  also  impossible  that  his 
sense  of  humor  should  not  have  been  aroused 
by  much  that  he  found  in  Wordsworth,  It  was 
Wordsworth  he  meant  when  he  said,  'Every 
man  has  his  speculations,  but  every  man  does 
not  brood  and  peacock  over  them  till  he  makes 
a  false  coinage  and  deceives  himself,'  —  a  sen- 
tence, by  the  way,  quite  as  unconsciously  funny 
as  some  of  the  things  he  laughed  at  in  the  works 
of  his  great  contemporary. 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  127 

It  will  be  pertinent  to  quote  here  two  or 
three  of  the  good  critical  words  which  Keats 
scattered  through  his  letters.  Emphasizing  the 
use  of  simple  means  in  his  art,  he  says,  *  I  think 
that  poetry  should  surprise  by  a  fine  excess,  and 
not  by  singularity ;  it  should  strike  the  reader 
as  a  wording  of  his  own  highest  thoughts,  and 
appear  almost  a  remembrance.' 

*  We  hate  poetry  that  has  a  palpable  design 
upon  us.  .  .  .  Poetry  should  be  great  and  un- 
obtrusive, a  thing  which  enters  into  one's  soul, 
and  does  not  startle  it  or  amaze  it  with  itself, 
but  with  its  subject.'  Or  as  Ruskin  has  put 
the  thing  with  respect  to  painting,  *  Entirely 
first-rate  work  is  so  quiet  and  natural  that  there 
can  be  no  dispute  over  it.' 

Keats  appears  to  have  been  in  no  sense  a 
hermit.  With  the  exception  of  Byron,  he  was 
perhaps  less  of  a  recluse  than  any  of  his  poeti- 
cal contemporaries.  With  respect  to  society 
he  frequently  practiced  total  abstinence;  but 
the  world  was  amusing,  and  he  liked  it.  He 
was  fond  of  the  theatre,  fond  of  whist,  fond  of 
visiting  the  studios,  fond  of  going  to  the  houses 
of  his  friends.  But  he  would  run  no  risks ;  he 
was  shy  and  he  was  proud.  He  dreaded  con- 
tact with  the  ultra-fashionables.  Naturally,  his 
opportunities  for  such  intercourse  were  limited, 
but  he  cheerfully  neglected  his  opportunities. 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  bewailed  his  humble  origin ; 
nevertheless,  the  constitution  of  English  society 


128  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

would  hardly  admit  of  his  forgetting  it.  He 
had  that  pardonable  pride  which  will  not  allow  a 
man  to  place  himself  among  those  who,  though 
outwardly  fair-spoken,  offer  the  insult  of  a  hos- 
tile and  patronizing  mental  attitude. 

Most  of  his  friendships  were  with  men,  and 
this  is  to  his  credit.  The  man  is  spiritually 
warped  who  is  incapable  of  a  deep  and  abiding 
friendship  with  one  of  his  own  sex ;  and  to  go 
a  step  farther,  that  man  is  utterly  to  be  dis- 
trusted whose  only  friends  are  among  women. 
We  may  not  be  prepared  to  accept  the  radical 
position  of  a  certain  young  thinker,  who  pro- 
claims, in  season,  but  defiantly,  that  'men  are 
the  idealists,  after  all ; '  yet  it  is  easy  to  com- 
prehend how  one  may  take  this  point  of  view. 
The  friendships  of  men  are  a  vastly  more  inter- 
esting and  poetic  study  than  the  friendships  of 
men  and  women.  This  is  in  the  nature  of  the 
case.  It  is  the  usual  victory  of  the  normal 
over  the  abnormal.  As  a  rule,  it  is  impossible 
for  a  friendship  to  exist  between  a  man  and 
woman,  unless  the  man  and  woman  in  question 
be  husband  and  wife.  Then  it  is  as  rare  as  it 
is  beautiful.  And  with  men,  the  most  admi- 
rable spectacle  is  not  always  that  where  attend- 
ant circumstances  prompt  to  heroic  display  of 
friendship,  for  it  is  often  so  much  easier  to 
die  than  to  live.  But  you  may  see  young 
men  pledging  their  mutual  love  and  support  in 
this  difficult  and  adventurous  quest  of  what  is 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  129 

noblest  in  the  art  of  living.  Such  love  will  not 
urge  to  a  theatrical  posing,  and  it  can  hardly 
find  expression  in  words.  Words  seem  to  pro- 
fane it.  I  do  not  say  that  Keats  stood  in  such 
an  ideal  relation  to  any  one  of  his  many  friends 
whose  names  appear  in  the  letters.  He  gave 
of  himself  to  them  all,  and  he  received  much 
from  each.  No  man  of  taste  and  genius  could 
have  been  other  than  flattered  by  the  way  in 
which  Keats  approached  him.  He  was  charm- 
ing in  his  attitude  toward  Haydon ;  and  when 
Haydon  proposed  sending  Keats's  sonnet  to 
Wordsworth,  the  young  poet  wrote,  *  The  Idea 
of  your  sending  it  to  Wordsworth  put  me  out 
of  breath  —  you  know  with  what  Reverence  I 
would  send  my  well  wishes  to  him.' 

But  interesting  as  a  chapter  on  Keats's 
friendships  with  men  would  be,  we  are  bound 
to  confess  that  in  dramatic  intensity  it  would 
grow  pale  when  laid  beside  that  fiery  love  pas- 
sage of  his  life,  his  acquaintance  with  Fanny 
Brawne.  The  thirty-nine  letters  given  in  the 
fourth  volume  of  Buxton  Forman's  edition  of 
Keats  s  Works  tell  the  story  of  this  affair  of  a 
poet's  heart.  These  are  the  letters  which  Mr. 
William  Watson  says  he  has  never  read,  and  at 
which  no  consideration  shall  ever  induce  him 
to  look.  But  Mr.  Watson  reflects  upon  people 
who  have  been  human  enough  to  read  them 
when  he  compares  such  a  proceeding  on  his 
own  part  (were  he  able  to  be  guilty  of  it)  to  the 


130  LETTERS   OF  JOHN    KEATS 

indelicacy  of  '  listening  at  a  keyhole  or  spying 
over  a  wall.'  This  is  not  a  just  illustration. 
The  man  who  takes  upon  himself  the  responsi- 
bility of  being  the  first  to  open  such  intimate 
letters,  and  adds  thereto  the  infinitely  greater 
responsibility  of  publishing  them  in  so  attract- 
ive a  form  that  he  who  runs  will  stop  running 
in  order  to  read,  —  such  an  editor  will  need  to 
satisfy  Mr.  Watson  that  in  so  doing  he  was  not 
listening  at  a  keyhole  or  spying  over  a  wall 
For  the  general  public,  the  wall  is  down,  and 
the  door  containing  the  keyhole  thrown  open. 
Perhaps  our  duty  is  not  to  look.  I,  for  one, 
wish  that  great  men  would  not  leave  their 
love  letters  around.  Nay,  I  wish  you  a  better 
wish  than  that :  it  is  that  the  perfect  taste  of 
the  gentleman  and  scholar  who  gave  us  in  its 
present  form  the  correspondence  of  Carlyle  and 
Emerson,  the  early  and  later  letters  of  Carlyle, 
and  the  letters  of  Lowell  might  have  control 
of  the  private  papers  of  every  man  of  genius 
whose  teachings  the  world  holds  dear.  He 
would  need  for  this  an  indefinite  lease  upon 
life ;  but  since  I  am  wishing,  let  me  wish 
largely.  There  is  need  of  such  wishing.  Many 
editors  have  been  called,  and  only  two  or  three 
chosen. 

But  why  one  who  reads  the  letters  of  Keats 
to  Fanny  Brawne  should  have  any  other  feel- 
ing than  that  of  pity  for  a  poor  fellow  who  was 
so  desperately  in  love  as  to  be  wretched  be- 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  131 

cause  of  it  I  do  not  see.  Even  a  cynic  will 
grant  that  Keats  was  not  disgraced,  since  it  is 
very  clear  that  he  did  not  yield  readily  to  what 
Dr.  Holmes  calls  the  great  passion.  He  had  a 
complacent  boyish  superiority  of  attitude  with 
respect  to  all  those  who  are  weak  enough  to 
love  women.  *  Nothing,'  he  says,  *  strikes  me 
so  forcibly  with  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous  as 
love.  A  man  in  love  I  do  think  cuts  the  sorry- 
est  figure  in  the  world.  Even  when  I  know  a 
poor  fool  to  be  really  in  pain  about  it  I  could 
burst  out  laughing  in  his  face.  His  pathetic 
visage  becomes  irresistible.'  Then  he  speaks 
of  that  dinner  party  of  stutterers  and  squinters 
described  in  the  Spectator,  and  says  that  it 
would  please  him  more  *  to  scrape  together  a 
party  of  lovers.'  If  this  letter  be  genuine  and 
the  date  of  it  correctly  given,  it  was  written 
three  months  after  he  had  succumbed  to  the 
attractions  of  Fanny  Brawne.  Perhaps  he  was 
trying  to  brave  it  out,  as  one  may  laugh  to  con- 
ceal embarrassment. 

In  a  much  earlier  letter  than  this  he  hopes 
he  shall  never  marry,  but  nevertheless  has  a 
good  deal  to  say  about  a  young  lady  with  fine 
eyes  and  fine  manners  and  a  *  rich  Eastern 
look.'  He  discovers  that  he  can  talk  to  her 
without  being  uncomfortable  or  ill  at  ease.  *  I 
am  too  much  occupied  in  admiring  to  be  awk- 
ward or  in  a  tremble.  .  .  .  She  kept  me  awake 
one  night  as  a  tune  of  Mozart's  might  do.  .  .  . 


132  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

I  don't  cry  to  take  the  moon  home  with  me  in 
my  pocket,  nor  do  I  fret  to  leave  her  behind 
me.'  But  he  was  not  a  Httle  touched,  and 
found  it  easy  to  fill  two  pages  on  the  subject 
of  this  dark  beauty.  She  was  a  friend  of  the 
Reynolds  family.  She  crosses  the  stage  of  the 
Keats  drama  in  a  very  impressive  manner,  and 
then  disappears. 

The  most  extraordinary  passage  to  be  met 
with  in  relation  to  the  poet's  attitude  towards 
women  is  in  a  letter  written  to  Benjamin  Bailey 
in  July,  1818.  As  a  partial  hint  towards  its  full 
meaning  I  would  take  two  phrases  in  Daniel 
Deronda.  George  Eliot  says  of  Gwendolen 
Harleth  that  there  was  *  a  certain  fierceness  of 
maidenhood  in  her,'  which  expression  is  quoted 
here  only  to  emphasize  the  girl's  feeling  towards 
men  as  described  a  little  later,  when  Rex  Gas- 
coigne  attempted  to  tell  her  his  love.  Gwen- 
dolen repulsed  him  with  a  sort  of  fury  that  was 
surprising  to  herself.  The  author's  interpreta- 
tive comment  is,  '  The  life  of  passion  had  begun 
negatively  in  her! 

So  one  might  say  of  Keats  that  the  life  of 
passion  began  negatively  in  him.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  hostility  of  temper  towards  women. 
*  I  am  certain  I  have  not  a  right  feeling  toward 
women  —  at  this  moment  I  am  striving  to  be 
just  to  them,  but  I  cannot.'  He  certainly 
started  with  a  preposterously  high  ideal,  for  he 
says  that  when  a  schoolboy  he  thought  a  fair 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN  KEATS     133 

woman  a  pure  goddess.  And  now  he  is  dis- 
appointed at  finding  women  only  the  equals  of 
men.  This  disappointment  helps  to  give  rise 
to  that  antagonism  which  is  almost  inexplicable 
save  as  George  Eliot's  phrase  throws  light  upon 
it.  He  thinks  that  he  insults  women  by  these 
perverse  feelings  of  unprovoked  hostility.  *  Is 
it  not  extraordinary,'  he  exclaims,  *  when  among 
men  I  have  no  evil  thoughts,  no  malice,  no 
spleen ;  I  feel  free  to  speak  or  to  be  silent ; 
...  I  am  free  from  all  suspicion,  and  comfort- 
able. When  I  am  among  women,  I  have  evil 
thoughts,  malice,  spleen ;  I  cannot  speak  or  be 
silent ;  I  am  full  of  suspicions,  and  therefore 
listen  to  nothing ;  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone.' 
He  wonders  how  this  trouble  is  to  be  cured. 
He  speaks  of  it  as  a  prejudice  produced  from 
*  a  gordian  complication  of  feelings,  which  must 
take  time  to  unravel.'  And  then,  with  a  good- 
humored,  characteristic  touch,  he  drops  the 
subject,  saying,  'After  all,  I  do  think  better  of 
women  than  to  suppose  they  care  whether  Mis- 
ter John  Keats,  five  feet  high,  likes  them  or 
not.' 

Three  or  four  months  after  writing  these 
words  he  must  have  begun  his  friendly  rela- 
tions with  the  Brawne  family.  This  would  be 
in  October  or  November,  18 18.  Keats's  de- 
scription of  Fanny  is  hardly  flattering,  and  not 
even  vivid.  What  is  one  to  make  of  the  color- 
less expression  *  a  fine  style  of  countenance  of 


134  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  KEATS 

the  lengthened  sort '  ?  But  she  was  fair  to 
him,  and  any  beauty  beyond  that  would  have 
been  superfluous.  We  look  at  the  silhouette 
and  sigh  in  vain  for  trace  of  the  loveliness 
which  ensnared  Keats.  But  if  our  daguerreo- 
types of  forty  years  ago  can  so  entirely  fail  of 
giving  one  line  of  that  which  in  its  day  passed 
for  dazzling  beauty,  let  us  not  be  unreasonable 
in  our  demands  upon  the  artistic  capabilities  of 
a  silhouette.  Not  infrequently  is  it  true  that 
the  style  of  dress  seems  to  disfigure.  But  we 
have  learned,  in  course  of  experience,  that 
pretty  women  manage  to  be  pretty,  however 
much  fashion,  with  their  cordial  help,  disguises 
them. 

It  is  easy  to  see  from  the  letters  that  Keats 
was  a  difficult  lover.  Hard  to  please  at  the 
best,  his  two  sicknesses,  one  of  body  and  one 
of  heart,  made  him  whimsical  Nothing  less 
than  a  woman  of  genius  could  possibly  have 
managed  him.  He  was  jealous,  perhaps  quite 
unreasonably  so.  Fanny  Brawne  was  young,  a 
bit  coquettish,  buoyant,  and  he  misinterpreted 
her  vivacity.  She  liked  what  is  commonly 
called  *  the  world,'  and  so  did  he  when  he  was 
well ;  but  looking  through  the  discolored  glass 
of  ill  health,  all  nature  was  out  of  harmony. 
For  these  reasons  it  happens  that  the  letters  at 
times  come  very  near  to  being  documents  in 
love-madness.  Many  a  line  in  them  gives 
sharp  pain,  as  a  record  of  heart-suffering  must 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS  135 

always  do.  You  may  read  Richard  Steele's 
love  letters  for  pleasure,  and  have  it.  The 
love  letters  of  Keats  scorch  and  sting ;  and  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  you  cannot  avoid  reflecting 
upon  the  transitory  character  of  such  a  passion. 
Withering  young  love  like  this  does  not  last. 
It  may  burn  itself  out,  or,  what  is  quite  as 
likely,  it  may  become  sober  and  rational.  But 
in  its  earlier  maddened  state  it  cannot  possibly 
last ;  a  man  would  die  under  it.  Men  as  a  rule 
do  not  so  die,  for  the  race  of  the  Azra  is  nearly 
extinct. 

These  Brawne  letters,  however,  are  not  with- 
out their  bright  side ;  and  it  is  wonderful  to  see 
how  Keats's  elastic  nature  would  rebound  the 
instant  that  the  pressure  of  the  disease  relaxed 
He  is  at  times  almost  gay.  The  singing  of  a 
thrush  prompts  him  to  talk  in  his  natural  epis- 
tolary voice :  *  There  's  the  Thrush  again  —  I 
can't  afford  it  —  he  '11  run  me  up  a  pretty  Bill 
for  Music  —  besides  he  ought  to  know  I  deal  at 
dementi's.'  And  in  the  letter  which  he  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Brawne  from  Naples  is  a  touch  of  the 
old  bantering  Keats  when  he  says  that  *  it 's 
misery  to  have  an  intellect  in  splints.'  He  was 
never  strong  enough  to  write  again  to  Fanny, 
or  even  to  read  her  letters. 

I  should  like  to  close  this  reading  with  a  few 
sentences  from  a  letter  written  to  Reynolds  in 
February,  181 8,  Keats  says:  'I  had  an  idea 
that  a  man  might  pass  a  very  pleasant  life  in 


136  LETTERS   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

this  manner  —  let  him  on  a  certain  day  read  a 
certain  Page  of  full  Poesy  or  distilled  Prose, 
and  let  him  wander  with  it,  and  muse  upon  it, 
.  .  .  and  prophesy  upon  it,  and  dream  upon  it, 
until  it  becomes  stale  —  but  when  will  it  do  so  ? 
Never!  When  Man  has  arrived  at  a  certain 
ripeness  in  intellect  any  one  grand  and  spiritual 
passage  serves  him  as  a  starting  post  towards 
all  the  " two-and-thirty  Palaces."  How  happy 
is  such  a  voyage  of  conception,  what  delicious 
diligent  Indolence!  .  .  .  Nor  will  this  sparing 
touch  of  noble  Books  be  any  irreverence  to 
their  Writers  —  for  perhaps  the  honors  paid  by 
Man  to  Man  are  trifles  in  comparison  to  the 
Benefit  done  by  great  Works  to  the  Spirit  and 
pulse  of  good  by  their  mere  passive  existence.' 
May  we  not  say  that  the  final  test  of  great 
literature  is  that  it  be  able  to  be  read  in  the 
manner  here  indicated  ?  As  Keats  read,  so  did 
he  write.     His  own  work  was 

*  accomplished  in  repose 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry.' 


AN  ELIZABETHAN  NOVELIST 

The  fathers  in  English  literature  were  not  a 
little  given  to  writing  books  which  they  called 
*  anatomies.'  Thomas  Nash,  for  example,  wrote 
an  Anatomy  of  Absurdities,  and  Stubbes  an 
Anatomy  of  Abuses.  Greene,  the  novelist,  en- 
titled one  of  his  romances  Arbasto,  the  Ana- 
tomy of  Fortune.  The  most  famous  book  which 
bears  a  title  of  this  kind  is  the  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy,  by  Robert  Burton.  It  is  notable, 
first,  for  its  inordinate  length ;  second,  for  its 
readableness,  considering  the  length  and  the 
depth  of  it ;  third,  for  its  prodigal  and  bar- 
baric display  of  learning ;  and  last,  because  it 
is  said  to  have  had  the  effect  of  making  the 
most  indolent  man  of  letters  of  the  eighteenth 
century  get  up  betimes  in  the  morning.  Why 
Dr.  Johnson  needed  to  get  up  in  order  to  read 
the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  will  always  be  an 
enigma  to  some.  Perhaps  he  did  not  get  up. 
Perhaps  he  merely  sat  up  and  reached  for  the 
book,  which  would  have  been  placed  conven- 
iently near  the  bed.  For  the  virtue  of  the  act 
resided  in  the  circumstance  of  his  being  awake 
and  reading  a  good  book  two  hours  ahead  of 


138         AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

his  wonted  time  for  beginning  his  day.  If  he 
colored  his  remark  so  as  to  make  us  think 
he  got  up  and  dressed  before  reading,  he  may 
be  forgiven.  It  was  innocently  spoken.  Just 
as  a  man  who  lives  in  one  room  will  somehow 
involuntarily  fall  into  the  habit  of  speaking 
of  that  one  room  in  the  plural,  so  the  doctor 
added  a  touch  which  would  render  him  heroic 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew  him,  I  should 
like  a  pictorial  book-plate  representing  Dr. 
Johnson,  in  gown  and  nightcap,  sitting  up  in 
bed  reading  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  with 
Hodge,  the  cat,  curled  up  contentedly  at  his 
feet. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  whether 
Johnson  ever  read,  in  bed  or  out,  a  book  called 
Euphues,  the  Anatomy  of  Wit.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  the  spring  of  1579  by  Gabriel  Cawood, 
'dwelling  in  Paules  Churchyard,'  and  was  fol- 
lowed one  year  later  by  a  second  part,  Euphues 
and  his  England.  These  books  were  the  work 
of  John  Lyly,  a  young  Oxford  Master  of  Arts. 
According  to  the  easy  orthography  of  that  time 
(if  the  word  orthography  may  be  applied  to  a 
practice  by  virtue  of  which  every  man  spelled 
as  seemed  right  in  his  own  eyes),  Lyly's  name 
is  found  in  at  least  six  forms  :  Lilye,  Lylie, 
Lilly,  Lyllie,  Lyly,  and  Lylly.  Remembering 
the  willingness  of  i  and  y  to  bear  one  another's 
burdens,  we  may  still  exclaim,  with  Dr.  Ingleby, 
'  Great   is   the   mystery  of  archaic   spelling ! ' 


AN    ELIZABETHAN    NOVELIST  139 

Great  indeed  when  a  man  sometimes  had  more 
suits  of  letters  to  his  name  than  suits  of  clothes 
to  his  back.  That  the  name  of  this  young  au- 
thor was  pronounced  as  was  the  name  of  the 
flower,  lily,  seems  the  obvious  inference  from 
Henry  Upchear's  verses,  which  contain  pun- 
ning allusions  to  Lyly  and  Robert  Greene :  — 
*  Of  all  the  flowers  a  Lillie  once  I  lov'd 
Whose  laboring  beautie  brancht  itself  abroad,'  etc. 

Original  editions  of  the  Anatomy  of  Wit  and 
its  fellow  are  very  rare.  Probably  there  is  not 
a  copy  of  either  book  in  the  United  States. 
This  statement  is  ventured  in  good  faith,  and 
may  have  the  effect  of  bringing  to  light  a 
hitherto  neglected  copy.^  Strange  it  is  that 
princely  collectors  of  yore  appear  not  to  have 
cared  for  Euphues.  Surely  one  would  not  ven- 
ture to  affirm  that  John,  Duke  of  Roxburghe, 
might  not  have  had  it  if  he  had  wanted  it.  The 
book  is  not  to  be  found  in  his  sale  catalogue ; 
he  had  Lyly's  plays  in  quarto,  seven  of  them 

1  The  writer  of  this  paper  once  sent  to  that  fine  scholar 
and  gracious  gentleman,  Professor  Edward  Arber,  to  inquire 
whether  in  his  opinion  one  might  hope  to  buy  at  a  modest 
price  a  copy  of  either  the  first  or  the  second  part  of  Euphues. 
Professor  Arber's  reply  was  amusingly  emphatic :  '  You  might 
as  well  try  to  purchase  one  of  Mahomet's  old  slippers.'  But 
in  July  of  1896  there  were  four  copies  of  this  old  novel  on 
sale  at  one  New  York  bookstore.  One  of  the  copies  was 
of  great  beauty,  consisting  of  the  two  parts  of  the  story  bound 
up  together  in  a  really  sumptuous  fashion.  The  price  was 
not  large  as  prices  of  such  books  go,  but  on  the  other  hand 
'  'a  was  not  small.' 


I40         AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

each  marked  'rare,'  and  he  had  two  copies 
of  a  well-known  book  called  Euphues  Golden 
Legacie,  written  by  Thomas  Nash.  The  Per- 
kins Sale  catalogue  shows  neither  of  Lyly's 
novels.  List  after  list  of  the  spoils  of  mighty 
book-hunters  has  only  a  blank  where  the  Ana- 
tomy of  Wit  ought  to  be.  From  this  we  may 
argue  great  scarcity,  or  great  indifference,  or 
both.  In  the  compact  little  reprint  made  by 
Professor  Arber  one  may  read  this  moral  tal^ 
which  was  fashionable  when  Shakespeare  was 
a  youth  of  sixteen.  For  convenience  it  will  be 
advisable  to  speak  of  it  as  a  single  work  in  two 
parts,  for  such  it  practically  is. 

To  pronounce  upon  this  romance  is  not  easy. 
We  read  a  dozen  or  two  of  pages,  and  say,  *  This 
is  very  fantastical  humours.'  We  read  further, 
and  are  tempted  to  follow  Sir  Hugh  to  the 
extent  of  declaring,  'This  is  lunatics.'  One 
may  venture  the  not  profound  remark  that  it 
takes  all  sorts  of  books  to  make  a  literature. 
Euphues  is  one  of  the  books  that  would  prompt 
to  that  very  remark.  For  he  who  first  said 
that  it  takes  all  sorts  of  people  to  make  a  world 
was  markedly  impressed  with  the  differences 
between  those  people  and  himself.  He  had  in 
mind  eccentric  folk,  types  which  deviate  from 
the  normal  and  the  sane.  So  Euphues  is  a 
very  Malvolio  among  books,  cross-gartered  and 
wreathed  as  to  its  countenance  with  set  smiles. 
The  curious  in  literary  history  will  always  enjoy 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST  141 

such  a  production.  The  verdict  of  that  part  of 
the  reading  world  which  keeps  a  book  ahve  by 
calUng  for  fresh  copies  of  it  after  the  old  copies 
are  worn  out  is  against  Euphues.  It  had  a  vi- 
vacious existence  between  1579  and  1636,  and 
then  went  into  a  literary  retirement  lasting  two 
hundred  and  thirty-six  years.  When  it  again 
came  before  the  public  it  was  introduced  as 
*a  great  bibliographical  rarity.'  Its  fatal  old- 
fashionedness  hangs  like  a  millstone  about  its 
neck.  In  the  poems  of  Chaucer  and  the  dramas 
of  Shakespeare  are  a  thousand  touches  which 
make  the  reader  feel  that  Chaucer  and  Shake- 
speare are  his  contemporaries,  that  they  have 
written  in  his  own  time,  and  published  but  yes- 
terday. Read  Euphues,  and  you  will  say  to 
yourself,  'That  book  must  have  been  written 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  it  looks  its  age.' 
Yet  it  has  its  virtues.  One  may  not  say  of  it, 
as  Johnson  said  of  the  Rehearsal,  that  it  *  has 
not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet,'  Neither  may 
he,  upon  second  thought,  conclude  that  *  it  has 
not  vitality  enough  to  preserve  it  from  putre- 
faction.' It  has,  indeed,  a  bottom  of  good 
sense ;  and  so  had  Malvolio.  It  is  filled  from 
end  to  beginning  with  wit,  or  with  what  passed 
for  wit  among  many  readers  of  that  day.  Often 
the  wit  is  of  a  tawdry  and  spectacular  sort,  — 
mere  verbal  wit,  the  use  of  a  given  word  not 
because  it  is  the  best  word,  the  most  fitting 
word,  but  because  the  author  wants  a  word 


142         AN    ELIZABETHAN    NOVELIST 

beginning  with  the  letter  G,  or  the  letter  M,  or 
the  letter  F,  as  the  case  may  be.  On  the  sec- 
ond page  of  Greene's  Arbasto  is  this  sentence : 

*  He  did  not  so  much  as  vouchsafe  to  give  an 
eare  to  my  parley  or  an  eye  to  my  person.^ 
Greene  learned  this  trick  from  Lyly,  who  was 
a  master  of  the  art.  The  sentence  represents 
one  of  the  common  forms  in  Euphues,  such  as 
this :  *  To  the  stomach  quatted  with  dainties 
all  delicates  seem  queasie.'  Sometimes  the  bal- 
ance is  preserved  by  three  words  on  a  side. 
For  example,  the  companions  whom  Euphues 
found  in  Naples  practiced  arts  *  whereby  they 
might  either  soake  his  purse  to  reape  commo- 
dotie,  or  sootk  his  person  to  winne  credited 
Other  illustrations   are  these :   I   can  neither 

*  remember  our  miseries  without  grief  e^  nor  re- 
dress e  our  mishaps  without  grones.'  '  If  the 
wasting  of  our  money  might  not  dehort  us,  yet 
the  wounding  of  our  mindes  should  deterre 
us.'  This  next  sentence,  with  its  combination 
of  K  sounds,  clatters  like  a  pair  of  castanets  : 
'Though  Curio  bee  as  hot  as  a  toast,  yet 
Euphues  is  as  cold  as  a  clocke,  though  hee 
bee  a  cocke  of  the  game,  yet  Euphues  is  con- 
tent to  bee  craven  and  crye  creake.' 

Excess  of  alliteration  is  the  most  obvious 
feature  of  Lyly's  style.  That  style  has  been 
carefully  analyzed  by  those  who  are  learned  in 
such  things.  The  study  is  interesting,  with  its 
talk  of  alliteration  and  transverse  alliteration, 


AN   ELIZABETHAN    NOVELIST  143 

antithesis,  climax,  and  assonance.  In  truth, 
one  does  not  know  which  to  admire  the  more, 
the  ingenuity  of  the  man  who  constructed  the 
book,  or  the  ingenuity  of  the  scholars  who  have 
explained  how  he  did  it.  Between  Lyly  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  grammarians  on  the  other, 
the  reader  is  almost  tempted  to  ask  if  this  be 
literature  or  mathematics.  Whether  Lyly  got 
his  style  from  Pettie  or  Guevara  is  an  impor- 
tant question,  but  he  made  it  emphatically  his 
own,  and  it  will  never  be  called  by  any  other 
name  than  Euphuism.  The  making  of  a  book 
on  this  plan  is  largely  the  result  of  astonishing 
mental  gymnastics.  It  commands  respect  in 
no  small  degree,  because  Lyly  was  able  to  keep 
it  up  so  long.  To  walk  from  New  York  to 
Albany,  as  did  the  venerable  Weston  not  so 
very  long  since,  is  a  great  test  of  human  en- 
durance. But  walking  is  the  employment  of 
one's  legs  and  body  in  God's  appointed  way  of 
getting  over  the  ground.  Suppose  a  man  were 
to  undertake  to  hop  on  one  leg  from  New  York 
to  Albany,  the  utility  or  the  aesthetic  value  of 
the  performance  would  be  less  obvious.  The 
most  successful  artist  in  hopping  could  hardly 
expect  applause  from  the  right-minded.  He 
would  excite  attention  because  he  was  able  to 
hop  so  far,  and  not  because  he  was  the  expo- 
nent of  a  praiseworthy  method  of  locomotion. 
Lyly  gained  eminence  by  doing  to  a  greater  ex- 
tent than  any  man  a  thing  that  was  not  worth 


144         AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

doing  at  all.  One  is  more  astonished  at  Lyly's 
power  of  endurance  as  author  than  at  his  own 
power  of  endurance  as  reader.  For  the  vol- 
ume is  actually  readable  even  at  this  day.  Did 
Lyly  not  grow  wearied  of  perpetually  riding 
these  alliterative  trick-ponies .-'  Apparently  not. 
The  book  is  *  executed '  with  a  vivacity,  a  dash, 
a  *go,'  that  will  captivate  any  reader  who  is 
willing  to  meet  the  author  halfway.  Euphues 
became  the  rage,  and  its  literary  style  the  fash- 
ion. How  or  why  must  be  left  to  him  to  ex- 
plain who  can  tell  why  sleeves  grow  small  and 
then  grow  big,  why  skirts  are  at  one  time  only 
two  and  a  half  yards  around  and  at  another 
time  five  and  a  half  or  eight  yards  around.  An 
Elizabethan  gentleman  might  be  too  poor  to 
dress  well,  but  he  would  squander  his  last  penny 
in  getting  his  ruff  starched,  Lyly's  style  bris- 
tles with  extravagances  of  the  starched  ruff 
sort,  which  only  serve  to  call  attention  to  the 
intellectual  deficiencies  in  the  matter  of  doublet 
and  hose. 

Of  plot  or  story  there  is  but  little.  The 
hero,  Euphues,  who  gives  the  title  to  the  ro- 
mance, is  a  young,  clever,  and  rich  Athenian. 
He  visits  Naples,  where  his  money  and  wit 
attract  many  to  his  side.  By  his  careless, 
pleasure-seeking  mode  of  life  he  wakens  the 
fatherly  interest  of  a  wise  old  gentleman,  Eubu- 
lus,  who  calls  upon  him  to  warn  him  of  his 
danger.     The  conversation  between  the  two  is 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST  145 

the  first  and  not  the  least  amusing  illustration 
of  the  courtly  verbal  fencing  with  which  the 
book  is  filled.  The  advice  of  the  old  man  only 
provokes  Euphues  into  making  the  sophistical 
plea  that  his  style  of  living  is  right  because 
nature  prompts  him  to  it ;  and  he  leaves  Eubu- 
lus  *  in  a  great  quandary '  and  in  tears.  Never- 
theless, the  old  gentleman  has  the  righteous 
energy  which  prompts  him  to  say  to  the  depart- 
ing Euphues,  already  out  of  hearing,  'Seeing 
thou  wilt  not  buy  counsel  at  the  first  hand 
good  cheap,  thou  shalt  buy  repentance  at  the 
second  hand,  at  such  unreasonable  rate,  that 
thou  wilt  curse  thy  hard  pennyworth,  and  ban 
thy  hard  heart.'  Euphues  takes  to  himself  a 
new  sworn  brother,  one  Philautus,  who  carries 
him  to  visit  his  lady-love,  Lucilla.  Lucilla  is 
rude  at  first,  but  becomes  enamored  of  Eu- 
phues's  conversational  power,  and  finally  of 
himself.  In  fact,  she  unceremoniously  throws 
over  her  former  lover,  and  tells  her  father  that 
she  will  either  marry  Euphues  or  else  lead  apes 
in  hell.  This  causes  a  break  in  the  friendship 
between  Euphues  and  Philautus,  and  there  is 
an  exchange  of  formidably  worded  letters,  in 
which  Philautus  reminds  Euphues  that  all 
Greeks  are  liars,  and  Euphues  quotes  Euripides 
to  the  effect  that  all  is  lawful  in  love.  Lucilla, 
who  is  fickle,  suddenly  dismisses  her  new  cava- 
lier for  yet  a  third,  while  Euphues  and  Philau- 
tus, in  the  light  of  their  common  misfortune, 


146         AN   ELIZABETHAN  NOVELIST 

fall  upon  each  other's  necks  and  are  reconciled. 
Both  profess  themselves  to  have  been  fools, 
while  Euphues,  as  the  greater  and  more  recent 
fool,  composes  a  pamphlet  against  love.  This 
he  calls  a  'cooling-card.'  It  is  addressed  pri- 
marily to  Philautus,  but  contains  general  advice 
for  '  all  fond  lovers.'  Euphues' s  own  cure  was 
radical,  for  he  says,  *  Now  do  I  give  a  farewell 
to  the  world,  meaning  rather  to  macerate  my- 
self with  melancholy,  than  pine  in  folly,  rather 
choosing  to  die  in  my  study  amidst  my  books 
than  to  court  it  in  Italy  in  the  company  of 
ladies.'  He  returns  to  Athens,  applies  himself 
to  the  study  of  philosophy,  becomes  public 
reader  in  the  University,  and,  as  crowning  evi- 
dence that  he  has  finished  sowing  his  wild  oats, 
produces  three  volumes  of  lectures.  Realizing 
how  much  of  his  own  youth  has  been  wasted, 
he  writes  a  pamphlet  on  the  education  of  the 
young,  a  dialogue  with  an  atheist,  and  these, 
with  a  bundle  of  letters,  make  up  the  first  part 
of  the  Anatomy  of  Wit.  From  one  of  the  let- 
ters we  learn  that  Lucilla  was  as  frail  as  she 
was  beautiful,  and  that  she  died  in  evil  report. 
The  story,  including  the  diatribe  against  love, 
is  about  as  long  as  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 
It  begins  as  a  romance  and  ends  as  a  sermon. 

The  continuation  of  the  novel,  Euphues  and 
his  England,  is  a  little  over  a  third  longer  than 
Part  One.  The  two  friends  carry  out  their  pro- 
ject of  visiting  England.     After  a  wearisome 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST  147 

voyage  they  reach  Dover,  view  the  cliffs  and 
the  castle,  and  then  proceed  to  Canterbury. 
Between  Canterbury  and  London  they  stop  for 
a  while  with  a  *  comely  olde  gentleman,'  Fidus, 
who  keeps  bees  and  tells  good  stories.  He 
also  gives  sound  advice  as  to  the  way  in  which 
strangers  should  conduct  themselves.  A  lively 
bit  of  writing  is  the  account  which  Fidus  gives 
of  his  commonwealth  of  bees.  It  is  not  accord- 
ing to  Lubbock,  but  is  none  the  less  amusing. 
In  London  the  two  travelers  become  favorites 
at  the  court.  Philautus  falls  in  love,  to  the 
great  annoyance  of  Euphues,  who  argues 
mightily  with  him  against  such  folly.  The  two 
gentlemen  expend  vast  resources  of  stationery 
and  language  upon  the  subject.  They  quarrel 
violently,  and  Euphues  becomes  so  irritated 
that  he  must  needs  go  and  rent  new  lodgings, 
*  which  by  good  friends  he  quickly  got,  and 
there  fell  to  his  Pater  noster,  where  awhile,' 
says  Lyly  innocently,  *  I  will  not  trouble  him  in 
his  prayers.'  They  are  reconciled  later,  and 
Philautus  obtains  permission  to  love;  but  he 
has  discovered  in  the  mean  time  that  the  lady 
will  not  have  him.  The  account  of  his  passion, 
how  it  *  boiled  and  bubbled,'  of  his  visit  to  the 
soothsayer  to  purchase  love  charms,  his  stately 
declamations  to  Camilla  and  her  elaborate  re- 
plies to  him,  of  his  love  letter  concealed  in  a 
pomegranate,  and  her  answer  stitched  into  a 
copy  of  Petrarch,  —  is  all  very  lively  reading, 


148         AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

much  more  so  than  that  dreary  love-making 
between  Pyrocles  and  Philoclea,  or  between 
any  other  pair  of  the  many  exceedingly  tire- 
some folk  in  Sidney's  Arcadia.  Grant  that  it 
is  deliciously  absurd.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  a  clever  eighteen-year-old  girl,  replying  to 
a  declaration  of  love,  will  talk  in  the  language 
of  a  trained  nurse,  and  say  :  *  Green  sores  are  to 
be  dressed  roughly  lest  they  fester,  tettars  are 
to  be  drawn  in  the  beginning  lest  they  spread, 
Ringworms  to  be  anointed  when  they  first 
appear  lest  they  compass  the  whole  body,  and 
the  assaults  of  love  to  be  beaten  back  at  the 
first  siege  lest  they  undermine  at  the  second.' 
Was  ever  suitor  in  this  fashion  rejected !  It 
makes  one  think  of  some  of  the  passages  in  the 
History  of  John  Buncle,  where  the  hero  pours 
out  a  torrent  of  passionate  phrases,  and  the 
*  glorious '  Miss  Noel,  in  reply,  begs  that  they 
may  take  up  some  rational  topic  of  conversa- 
tion ;  for  example,  what  is  his  view  of  that 
opinion  which  ascribes  'primaevity  and  sacred 
prerogatives '  to  the  Hebrew  language. 

But  Philautus  does  not  break  his  heart  over 
Camilla's  rejection.  He  is  consoled  with  the 
love  of  another  fair  maiden,  marries  her,  and 
settles  in  England.  Euphues  goes  back  to 
Athens,  and  presently  retires  to  the  country, 
where  he  follows  the  calling  of  one  whose  pro- 
fession is  melancholy.  Like  most  hermits  of 
culture,  he  leaves  his  address  with  his  banker. 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         149 

We  assume  this,  for  he  was  very  rich ;  it  is  not 
difficult  to  be  a  hermit  on  a  large  income.  The 
book  closes  with  a  section  called  'Euphues 
Glasse  for  Europe,'  a  thirty-page  panegyric  on 
England  and  the  Queen, 

They  say  that  this  novel  was  very  popular, 
and  certain  causes  of  its  popularity  are  not 
difficult  to  come  at.  A  large  measure  of  the 
success  that  Euphues  had  is  due  to  the  com- 
monplaceness  of  its  observations.  It  abounds 
in  proverbs  and  copy-book  wisdom.  In  this 
respect  it  is  as  homely  as  an  almanac.  John 
Lyly  had  a  great  store  of  '  miscellany  thoughts,' 
and  he  cheerfully  parted  with  them.  His  book 
succeeded  as  Tupper's  Proverbial  Philosophy 
and  Watts'  On  the  Mind  succeeded.  People 
believed  that  they  were  getting  ideas,  and  peo- 
ple like  what  they  suppose  to  be  ideas  if  no 
great  effort  is  required  in  the  getting  of  them. 
It  is  astonishing  how  often  the  world  needs  to 
be  advised  of  the  brevity  of  time.  Yet  every 
person  who  can  wade  in  the  shallows  of  his  own 
mind  and  not  wet  his  shoe-tops  finds  a  sweet 
melancholy  and  a  stimulating  freshness  in  the 
thought  that  time  is  short.  John  Lyly  said, 
'There  is  nothing  more  swifter  than  time, 
nothing  more  sweeter,'  —  and  countless  Eliza- 
bethan gentlemen  and  ladies  underscored  that 
sentence,  or  transferred  it  to  their  common- 
place books,  —  if  they  had  such  painful  aids  to 
culture,  —  and  were  comforted  and  edified  by 


I50         AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

the  discovery  that  brilliant  John  Lyly  had 
made.  This  glib  command  of  the  matter-of- 
course,  with  a  ready  use  of  the  proverb  and  the 

*  old  said  saw,'  is  a  marked  characteristic  of  the 
work.  It  emphasizes  the  youth  of  its  author. 
We  learn  what  could  not  have  been  new  even 
in  1579,  that  'in  misery  it  is  a  great  comfort  to 
have  a  companion  ; '  that  '  a  new  broom  sweep- 
eth  clean;'  that  'delays  breed  dangers;'  that 

*  nothhig  is  so  perilous  as  procrastination ;  *  that 
'  a  burnt  child  dreadeth  the  fire ; '  that  it  is  well 
not  to  make  comparisons  *lest  comparisons 
should  seem  odious  ; '  that  *  it  is  too  late  to 
shut  the  stable  door  when  the  steed  is  stolen  ; ' 
that  '  many  things  fall  between  the  cup  and  the 
lip ; '  and  that  '  marriages  are  made  in  heaven, 
though  consummated  on  earth.'  With  these 
old  friends  come  others,  not  altogether  familiar 
of  countenance,  and  quaintly  archaic  in  their 
dress :  *  It  must  be  a  wily  mouse  that  shall 
breed  in  the  cat's  ear  ; '  '  It  is  a  mad  hare  that 
will  be  caught  with  a  tabor,  and  a  foolish  bird 
that  stayeth  the  laying  salt  on  her  tail,  and  a 
blind  goose  that  cometh  to  the  fox's  sermon.' 
Lyly  would  sometimes  translate  a  proverb  ;  he 
does  not  tell  us  that  fine  words  butter  no  pars- 
nips, but  says,  'Fair  words  fat  few,'  —  which  is 
delightfully  alliterative,  but  hardly  to  be  ac- 
counted an  improvement.  Expressions  that 
are  surprisingly  modern  turn  up  now  and  then. 
One  American  street  urchin  taunts  another  by 


AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         151 

telling  him  that  he  does  n't  know  enough  to 
come  in  when  it  rains.  The  saying  is  at  least 
three  hundred  years  old,  for  Lyly  says,  in  a 
dyspeptic  moment,  '  So  much  wit  is  sufficient 
for  a  woman  as  when  she  is  in  the  rain  can 
warn  her  to  come  out  of  it.' 

Another  cause  of  the  popularity  of  Euphues 
is  its  sermonizing.  The  world  loves  to  hear 
good  advice.  The  world  is  not  nervously  anx- 
ious to  follow  the  advice,  but  it  understands 
the  edification  that  comes  by  preaching.  With 
many  persons,  to  have  heard  a  sermon  is  almost 
equivalent  to  having  practiced  the  virtues  taught 
in  the  sermon.  Churches  are  generally  ac- 
cepted as  evidences  of  civilization.  A  man 
who  is  exploiting  the  interests  of  a  new  West- 
ern town  will  invariably  tell  you  that  it  has  so 
many  churches.  Also,  an  opera-house.  The 
English  world  above  all  other  worlds  loves  to 
hear  good  advice.  England  is  the  natural 
home  of  the  sermon.  Jusserand  notes,  almost 
with  wonder,  that  in  the  annual  statistics  of 
the  London  publishers  the  highest  numbers 
indicate  the  output  of  sermons  and  theological 
works.  Then  come  novels.  John  Lyly  was 
ingenious ;  he  combined  good  advice  and  story- 
telling. Not  skillfully,  hiding  the  sermon  amid 
lively  talk  and  adventure,  but  blazoning  the 
fact  that  he  was  going  to  moralize  as  long  as 
he  would.  He  shows  no  timidity,  even  declares 
upon  one  of  his  title-pages  that  in  this  volume 


IS2         AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

*  there  is  small  offense  by  lightness  given  to  the 
wise,  and  less  occasion  of  looseness  proffered 
to  the  wanton.'  Such  courage  in  this  day 
would  be  apt  seriously  to  injure  the  sale  of  a 
novel.  Did  not  Ruskin  declare  that  Miss 
Edgeworth  had  made  virtue  so  obnoxious  that 
since  her  time  one  hardly  dared  express  the 
slightest  bias  in  favor  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments ?  Lyly  knew  the  public  for  which  he 
acted  as  literary  caterer.  They  liked  sermons, 
and  sermons  they  should  have.  Nearly  every 
character  in  the  book  preaches,  and  Euphues  is 
the  most  gifted  of  them  all.  Even  that  old 
gentleman  of  Naples  who  came  first  to  Euphues 
because  his  heart  bled  to  see  so  noble  a  youth 
given  to  loose  living  has  the  tables  turned  upon 
him,  for  Euphues  preaches  to  the  preacher 
upon  the  sovereign  duty  of  resignation  to  the 
will  of  God. 

A  noteworthy  characteristic  is  the  frequency 
of  Lyly's  classical  allusions.  If  the  only  defini- 
tion of  pedantry  be  '  vain  and  ostentatious  dis- 
play of  learning,'  I  question  if  we  may  dismiss 
Lyly's  wealth  of  classical  lore  with  the  word 
'pedantry.'  He  was  fresh  from  his  university 
life.  If  he  studied  at  all  when  he  was  at  Ox- 
ford, he  must  have  studied  Latin  and  Greek, 
for  after  these  literatures  little  else  was  studied. 
Young  men  and  their  staid  tutors  were  com- 
pelled to  know  ancient  history  and  mytho- 
logy.   Like  Heine,  they  may  have  taken  a  *  real 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         153 

delight  in  the  mob  of  gods  and  goddesses  who 
ran  so  jolly  naked  about  the  world.'  In  the 
first  three  pages  of  the  Anatomy  of  Wit  there 
are  twenty  classical  names,  ten  of  them  coupled 
each  with  an  allusion.  Nobody  begins  a  speech 
without  a  reference  of  this  nature  within  call- 
ing distance.  Euphues  and  Philautus  fill  their 
talk  with  evidences  of  a  classical  training.  The 
ladies  are  provided  with  apt  remarks  drawn 
from  the  experiences  of  Helen,  of  Cornelia,  of 
Venus,  of  Diana,  and  Vesta.  Even  the  master 
of  the  ship  which  conveyed  Euphues  from 
Naples  to  England  declaims  about  Ulysses  and 
Julius  Caesar.  This  naturally  destroys  all  dra- 
matic effect.  Everybody  speaks  Euphuism, 
though  classical  allusion  alone  is  not  essentially 
Euphuistic.  John  Lyly  would  be  the  last  man 
to  merit  any  portion  of  that  fine  praise  bestowed 
by  Hazlitt  upon  Shakespeare  when  he  said  that 
Shakespeare's  genius  *  consisted  in  the  faculty 
of  transforming  himself  at  will  into  whatever 
he  chose.*  Lyly's  genius  was  the  opposite  of 
this ;  it  consisted  in  the  faculty  of  transform- 
ing everybody  into  a  reduplication  of  himself. 
There  is  no  change  in  style  when  the  narrative 
parts  end  and  the  dialogue  begins.  All  the 
persons  of  the  drama  utter  one  strange  tongue. 
They  are  no  better  than  the  characters  in  a 
Punch  and  Judy  show,  where  one  concealed 
manipulator  furnishes  voice  for  each  of  the 
figures.     But  in  Lyly's  novel  there  is  not  even 


IS4         AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

an  attempt  at  the  most  rudimentary  ventrilo- 
quism. 

What  makes  the  book  still  less  a  reflection 
of  life  is  that  the  speakers  indulge  in  intermi- 
nably long  harangues.  No  man  (unless  he  were 
a  Coleridge)  would  be  tolerated  who  talked  in 
society  at  such  inordinate  length.  When  the 
characters  can't  talk  to  one  another  they  retire 
to  their  chambers  and  declaim  to  themselves. 
They  polish  their  language  with  the  same  care, 
open  the  classical  dictionary,  and  have  at  them- 
selves in  good  set  terms.  Philautus,  inflamed 
with  love  of  Camilla,  goes  to  his  room  and  pro- 
nounces a  ten-minute  discourse  on  the  pangs  of 
love,  having  only  himself  for  auditor.  They 
are  amazingly  patient  under  the  verbal  inflic- 
tions of  one  another.  Euphues,  angry  with 
Philautus  for  having  allowed  himself  to  fall  in 
love,  takes  him  to  task  in  a  single  speech  con- 
taining four  thousand  words.  If  Lyly  had  set 
out  with  the  end  in  view  of  constructing  a  story 
by  putting  into  it  alone  'what  is  not  life,'  his 
product  would  have  been  what  we  find  it  now. 
One  could  easily  believe  the  whole  affair  to 
have  been  intended  for  a  tremendous  joke  were 
it  not  that  the  tone  is  so  serious.  We  are 
accustomed  to  think  of  youth  as  light-hearted  : 
but  look  at  a  serious  child,  —  there  is  nothing 
more  serious  in  the  world.  Lyly  was  twenty- 
six  years  when  he  first  published.  Much  of  the 
seriousness  in  his  romance  is  the  burden  of 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         155 

twenty-six  years'  experience  of  life,  a  burden 
greater  perhaps  than  he  ever  afterward  carried. 
Being,  as  we  take  it,  an  unmarried  man,  Lyly 
gives  directions  for  managing  a  wife.  He  be- 
lieves in  the  wholesome  doctrine  that  a  man 
should  select  his  own  wife.  *  Made  marriages 
by  friends '  are  dangerous.  *  I  had  as  lief 
another  should  take  measure  by  his  back  of  my 
apparel  as  appoint  what  wife  I  shall  have  by 
his  mind.'  He  prefers  in  a  wife  'beauty  before 
riches,  and  virtue  before  blood.'  He  holds  to 
the  radical  English  doctrine  of  wifely  submis- 
sion ;  there  is  no  swerving  from  the  position 
that  the  man  is  the  woman's  'earthly  master,'^ 
but  in  taming  a  wife  no  violence  is  to  be  em- 
ployed. Wives  are  to  be  subdued  with  kind- 
ness. *  If  their  husbands  with  great  threaten- 
ings,  with  jars,  with  brawls,  seek  to  make  them 
tractable,  or  bend  their  knees,  the  more  stiff 
they  make  them  in  the  joints,  the  oftener  they 
go  about  by  force  to  rule  them,  the  more  fro- 
ward  they  find  them ;  but  using  mild  words, 
gentle  persuasions,  familiar  counsel,  entreaty, 
submission,  they  shall  not  only  make  them  to 
bow  their  knees,  but  to  hold  up  their  hands, 
not  only  cause  them  to  honor  them,  but  to. 
stand  in  awe  of  them.'  By  such  methods  will 
that  supremest  good  of  an  English  home  be 
brought  about,  namely,  that  the  wife  shall  stand 
in  awe  of  her  husband, 

1  Lady  Burton's  Dedication  of  her  husband's  biography,  — 
'  To  my  earthly  master.'  etc. 


IS6         AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

The  young  author  admits  that  some  wives 
have  the  domineering  instinct,  and  that  way 
danger  Hes.  A  man  must  look  out  for  himself. 
If  he  is  not  to  make  a  slave  of  his  wife,  he  is 
also  not  to  be  too  submissive ;  *  that  will  cause 
her  to  disdain  thee.'  Moreover,  he  must  have 
an  eye  to  the  expenditure.  She  may  keep  the 
keys,  but  he  will  control  the  pocket-book.  The 
model  wife  in  Ecclesiastes  had  greater  privi- 
leges ;  she  could  not  only  consider  a  piece  of 
ground,  but  she  could  buy  it  if  she  liked  it. 
Not  so  this  well-trained  wife  of  Lyly's  novel. 
*Let  all  the  keys  hang  at  her  girdle,  but  the 
purse  at  thine,  so  shalt  thou  know  what  thou 
dost  spend,  and  how  she  can  spare.'  But  in 
setting  forth  his  theory  for  being  happy  though 
married,  Lyly,  methinks,  preaches  a  dangerous 
doctrine  in  this  respect :  he  hints  at  the  possi- 
bility of  a  man's  wanting,  in  vulgar  parlance,  to 
go  on  a  spree,  expresses  no  question  as  to  the 
propriety  of  his  so  doing,  but  says  that  if  a  man 
does  let  himself  loose  in  this  fashion  his  wife 
must  not  know  it.  *  Imitate  the  kings  of  Per- 
sia, who  when  they  were  given  to  riot  kept  no 
company  with  their  wives,  but  when  they  used 
good  order  had  their  queens  even  at  the  table.' 
In  short,  the  wife  was  to  duplicate  the  moods 
of  her  husband.  *  Thou  must  be  a  glass  to  thy 
wife,  for  in  thy  face  must  she  see  her  own ;  for 
if  when  thou  laughest  she  weep,  when  thou 
mournest  she  giggle,  the  one  is  a  manifest  sign 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST  157 

she  delighteth  in  others,  the  other  a  token  she 
despiseth  thee.'  John  Lyly  was  a  wise  youth. 
He  struck  the  keynote  of  the  mode  in  which 
most  incompatible  marriages  are  played  when 
he  said  that  it  was  a  bad  sign  if  one's  wife  gig- 
gled when  one  was  disposed  to  be  melancholy. 

An  interesting  study  is  the  author's  attitude 
toward  foreign  travel.  It  would  appear  to  have 
been  the  fashion  of  the  time  to  indulge  in  much 
invective  against  foreign  travel,  but  neverthe- 
less—  to  travel.  Many  men  believed  with 
young  Valentine  that  'home  keeping  youth 
have  ever  homely  wits,'  while  others  were  rather 
of  Ascham's  mind  when  he  said,  *  I  was  once  in 
Italy,  but  I  thank  God  my  stay  there  was  only 
nine  days.'  Lyly  came  of  a  nation  of  travelers. 
Then  as  now  it  was  true  that  there  was  no 
accessible  spot  of  the  globe  upon  which  the 
Englishman  had  not  set  his  foot.  Nomadic 
England  went  abroad  ;  sedentary  England 
stayed  at  home  to  rail  at  him  for  so  doing. 
Aside  from  that  prejudice  which  declared  that 
all  foreigners  were  fools,  there  was  a  well- 
founded  objection  to  the  sort  of  traveling  usu- 
ally described  as  seeing  the  world.  Young 
men  went  upon  the  continent  to  see  question- 
able forms  of  pleasure,  perhaps  to  practice 
them.  Whether  justly  or  not,  common  report 
named  Italy  as  the  higher  school  of  pleasurable 
vices,  and  Naples  as  the  city  where  one's  doc- 
torate was  to  be  obtained.     Gluttony  and  Ucen- 


IS8         AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

tiousness  are  the  sins  of  Naples.  Eubulus  tells 
Euphues  that  in  that  city  are  those  who  '  sleep 
with  meat  in  their  mouths,  with  sin  in  their 
hearts,  and  with  shame  in  their  houses.'  There 
is  no  limit  to  the  inconveniences  of  traveling. 
*  Thou  must  have  the  back  of  an  ass  to  bear  all, 
and  the  snout  of  a  swine  to  say  nothing.  .  .  . 
Travelers  must  sleep  with  their  eyes  open  lest 
they  be  slain  in  their  beds,  and  wake  with  their 
eyes  shut  lest  they  be  suspected  by  their  looks,' 
Journeys  by  the  fireside  are  better.  '  If  thou 
covet  to  travel  strange  countries,  search  the 
maps,  there  shalt  thou  see  much  with  great 
pleasure  and  small  pains,  if  to  be  conversant  in 
all  courts,  read  histories,  where  thou  shalt 
understand  both  what  the  men  have  been  and 
what  their  manners  are,  and  methinketh  there 
must  be  much  delight  where  there  is  no  dan- 
ger.' Perhaps  Lyly  intended  to  condemn  trav- 
eling with  character  unformed.  A  boy  returned 
with  more  vices  than  he  went  forth  with  pence, 
and  was  able  to  sin  both  by  experience  and 
authority.  Lest  he  should  be  thought  to  speak 
with  uncertain  voice  upon  this  matter  Lyly 
gives  Euphues  a  story  to  tell  in  which  the  chief 
character  describes  the  effect  of  traveling  upon 
himself,  'There  was  no  crime  so  barbarous, 
no  murder  so  bloody,  no  oath  so  blasphemous, 
no  vice  so  execrable,  but  that  I  could  readily 
recite  where  I  learned  it,  and  by  rote  repeat  the 
peculiar  crime  of  every  particular  country,  city, 


AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         159 

town,  village,  house,  or  chamber.'  Here,  in- 
deed, is  no  lack  of  plain  speech. 

In  the  section  called  'Euphues  and  his 
Ephcebus'  twenty-nine  pages  are  devoted  to 
the  question  of  the  education  of  youth.  It  is 
largely  taken  from  Plutarch.  Some  of  the 
points  are  these:  that  a  mother  shall  herself 
nurse  her  child,  that  the  child  shall  be  early 
framed  to  manners,  'for  as  the  Steele  is  im- 
printed in  the  soft  waxe,  so  learning  is  engraven 
in  ye  minde  of  an  young  Impe.'  He  is  not  to 
hear  'fonde  fables  or  filthy  tales.'  He  is  to 
learn  to  pronounce  distinctly  and  to  be  kept 
from  *  barbarous  talk,'  that  is,  no  dialect  and  no 
slang.  He  is  to  become  expert  in  martial 
affairs,  in  shooting  and  darting,  and  he  must 
hunt  and  hawk  for  his  '  honest  recreation.'  If 
he  will  not  study,  he  is  not  to  be  'scourged 
with  stripes,  but  threatened  with  words,  not 
dulled  with  blows,  like  servants,  the  which,  the 
more  they  are  beaten  the  better  they  bear  it, 
and  the  less  they  care  for  it.'  In  taking  this 
position  Lyly  is  said  to  be  only  following  As- 
cham.  Ascham  was  not  the  first  in  his  own 
time  to  preach  such  doctrine.  Forty  years  be- 
fore the  publication  of  The  Schoolmaster,  Sir 
Thomas  Elyot,  in  his  book  called  The  Gover- 
nour,  raised  his  voice  against  the  barbarity  of 
teachers  'by  whom  the  wits  of  children  be 
dulled,'  —  almost  the  very  words  of  John  Lyly. 

EuphueSy   besides  being  a  treatise  on   love 


i6o  AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

and  education,  is  a  sort  of  Tudor  tract  upon 
animated  nature.  It  should  be  a  source  of  joy 
unspeakable  to  the  general  reader  if  only  for 
what  it  teaches  him  in  the  way  of  natural  his- 
tory. How  much  of  what  is  most  gravely 
stated  here  did  John  Lyly  actually  believe  ?  It 
is  easy  to  grant  so  orthodox  a  statement  of 
physical  fact  as  that  'the  Sunne  doth  harden 
the  durte,  and  melte  the  waxe;'  but  ere  the 
sentence  be  finished,  the  author  calls  upon  us 
to  believe  that  'Perfumes  doth  refresh  the 
Dove  and  kill  the  Betill.'  The  same  reckless 
extravagance  of  remark  is  to  be  noted  when- 
ever bird,  beast,  or  reptile  is  mentioned.  The 
crocodile  of  Shakespeare's  time  must  have  been 
a  very  contortionist  among  beasts,  for,  says 
Lyly,  *  when  one  approacheth  neere  unto  him, 
[he]  gathereth  up  himselfe  into  the  roundnesse 
of  a  ball,  but  running  from  him,  stretcheth 
himselfe  into  the  length  of  a  tree.'  Perhaps 
the  fame  of  this  creature's  powers  grew  in  the 
transmission  of  the  narrative  from  the  banks  of 
the  Nile  to  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  The 
ostrich  was  human  in  its  vanity  according  to 
Lyly;  men  and  women  sometimes  pull  out 
their  white  hairs,  but  '  the  Estritch,  that  taketh 
the  greatest  pride  in  her  feathers,  picketh  some 
of  the  worst  out  and  bumeth  them.'  Nay, 
more  than  that,  being  in  *  great  haste  she  prick- 
eth  none  but  hirselfe  which  causeth  hir  to 
runne  when  she  would  rest.'     We  shall  pre- 


AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         i6i 

sently  expect  to  hear  that  ostriches  wear  boots 
by  the  straps  of  which  they  lift  themselves 
over  ten-foot  woven-wire  fences.  But  Lyly 
used  the  conventional  natural  history  that  was 
at  hand,  and  troubled  himself  in  no  respect  to 
inquire  about  its  truth  or  falsity. 

There  is  yet  another  cause  of  the  popularity 
of  this  book  in  its  own  time,  which  has  been 
too  little  emphasized.  It  is  that  trumpet  blast 
of  patriotism  with  which  the  volume  ends.  We 
feel,  as  we  read  the  thirty  pages  devoted  to  the 
praise  of  England  and  the  Queen,  that  this  is 
right,  fitting,  artistic,  and  we  hope  that  it  is  tol- 
erably sincere.  Flattery  came  easily  to  men  in 
those  days,  and  there  was  small  hope  of  advance- 
ment for  one  who  did  not  master  the  art.  But 
there  is  a  glow  of  earnestness  in  these  para- 
graphs rather  convincing  to  the  skeptic.  Nor 
would  the  book  be  complete  without  this  eulogy. 
We  have  had  everything  else ;  a  story  for  who 
wanted  a  story,  theories  upon  the  education  of 
children,  a  body  of  mythological  divinity,  a  dis- 
cussion of  methods  of  public  speaking,  advice 
for  men  who  are  about  to  marry,  a  theological 
sparring  match,  in  which  a  man  of  straw  is  set 
up  to  be  knocked  down,  and  is  knocked  down, 
a  thousand  illustrations  of  wit  and  curious  read- 
ing, and  now,  as  a  thing  that  all  men  could 
understand,  the  author  tells  Englishmen  of 
their  own  good  fortune  in  being  Englishmen, 
and  is  finely  outspoken  in  praise  of  what  he 
calls  'the  blessed  Island.' 


i62         AN   ELIZABETHAN  NOVELIST 

This  is  an  old-fashioned  vein,  to  be  sure,  — 
the  ad  captandum  trick  of  a  popular  orator 
bent  upon  making  a  success.  It  is  not  looked 
upon  in  all  places  with  approval.  'Our  unri- 
valed prosperity '  was  a  phrase  which  greatly 
irritated  Matthew  Arnold.  Here  in  America, 
are  we  not  taught  by  a  highly  fastidious  journal 
that  we  may  be  patriotic  if  we  choose,  but  we 
must  be  careful  how  we  let  people  know  it  "i 
We  must  n't  make  a  fuss  about  it.  We 
must  n't  be  blatant.  The  star-spangled  banner 
on  the  public  schools  is  at  best  a  cheap  and 
vulgar  expression  of  patriotism.  But  somehow 
even  this  sort  of  patriotism  goes  with  the  peo- 
ple, and  perhaps  these  instincts  of  the  common 
folk  are  not  entirely  to  be  despised.  Many  a 
reader  of  Euphues,  who  cared  but  little  for  its 
elaborated  style,  who  was  not  moved  by  its 
orthodoxy,  who  did  n't  read  books  simply  be- 
cause they  were  fashionable,  must  have  felt  his 
pulse  stirred  by  Lyly's  chant  of  England's 
greatness.  For  Euphues  is  John  Lyly,  and 
John  Lyly's  creed  was  substantially  that  of 
the  well-known  hero  of  a  now  forgotten  comic 
opera,  *  I  am  an  Englishman.' 

In  the  thin  disguise  of  the  chief  character  of 
his  story  the  author  describes  the  happy  island, 
its  brave  gentlemen  and  rich  merchants,  its  fair 
ladies  and  its  noble  Queen.  The  glories  of 
London,  which  he  calls  the  storehouse  and 
mart  of  all  Europe,  and  the  excellence  of  Eng- 


AN  ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST         163 

lish  universities,  *  out  of  which  do  daily  proceed 
men  of  great  wisdom,'  are  alike  celebrated. 
England's  material  wealth  in  mines  and  quar- 
ries is  amply  set  forth,  also  the  fine  qualities  of 
the  breed  of  cattle,  and  the  virtues  of  English 
spaniels,  hounds,  and  mastiffs;  for  these  con- 
stitute a  sort  of  good  that  all  could  appreciate. 
He  is  satirical  at  the  expense  of  his  country- 
men's dress,  —  'there  is  nothing  in  England 
more  constant  than  the  inconstancie  of  attire,' 
—  but  praises  their  silence  and  gravity  at  their 
meals.  They  have  wise  ministers  in  the  court, 
and  devout  guardians  of  the  true  religion  and 
of  the  church.  *0  thrice  happy  England, 
where  such  councilors  are,  where  such  people 
live,  where  such  virtue  springeth.' 

In  the  paragraphs  relating  to  the  queen,  Lyly 
grows  positively  eloquent.  He  praises  her 
matchless  beauty,  her  mercy,  patience,  and 
moderation,  and  emphasizes  the  fact  of  her  vir- 
ginity to  a  degree  that  would  have  satisfied  the 
imperial  votaress  herself  if  but  once  she  had 
considered  her  admirer's  words :  *  O  fortunate 
England  that  hath  such  a  Queen ;  ungratef uU, 
if  thou  pray  not  for  her ;  wicked,  if  thou  do  not 
love  her ;  miserable,  if  thou  lose  her.'  He  calls 
down  Heaven's  blessings  upon  her  that  she 
may  be  *  triumphant  in  victories  like  the  Palm 
tree,  fruitful  in  her  age  like  the  Vine,  in  all 
ages  prosperous,  to  all  men  gracious,  in  all 
places  glorious  :  so  that  there  be  no  end  of  her 
praise,  until  the  end  of  all  flesh.' 


i64  AN   ELIZABETHAN   NOVELIST 

With  passages  such  as  these,  this  interesting 
book  draws  to  a  conclusion.  A  most  singular 
and  original  book,  worthy  to  be  read,  unless, 
indeed,  the  reading  of  these  out-of-the-way  vol- 
umes were  found  to  encroach  upon  time  belong- 
ing by  right  of  eminent  intellectual  domain  to 
Chaucer  and  to  Shakespeare,  to  Spenser  and 
to  Milton.  That  Euphues  is  in  no  exact  sense 
a  novel  admits  of  little  question.  It  is  also  a 
brilliant  illustration  of  how  not  to  write  Eng- 
lish, Nevertheless  it  is  very  amusing,  and  its 
disappearance  would  be  a  misfortune,  since  it 
would  eclipse  the  innocent  gayety  of  many  a 
man  who  loves  to  bask  in  that  golden  sunshine 
which  streams  from  the  pages  of  old  English 
books. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  FAIR- 
MINDED   MAN 

It  is  by  no  means  necessary  that  one  be  a 
man  of  letters  in  order  to  write  a  good  book. 
Some  very  admirable  books  have  been  written 
by  men  who  gave  no  especial  thought  to  litera- 
ture as  an  art.  They  wrote  because  they  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  find  themselves  in  possession 
of  ideas,  and  not  because  they  had  determined 
to  become  authors.  Literature  as  such  implies 
sophistication,  and  people  who  devote  them- 
selves to  literature  do  so  from  a  variety  of 
motives.  But  these  writers  of  whom  I  now 
speak  have  a  less  complex  thought  back  of  their 
work.  They  do  not,  for  example,  propose  plea- 
sure to  the  reader  as  an  object  in  writing. 
Their  aim  is  single.  They  recount  an  experi- 
ence, or  plead  a  cause.  Literature  with  them 
is  always  a  means  to  an  end.  They  are  like 
pedestrians  who  never  look  upon  walking  as 
other  than  a  rational  process  for  reaching  a 
given  place.  It  does  not  occur  to  them  that 
walking  makes  for  health  and  pleasure,  and  that 
it  is  also  an  exercise  for  displaying  a  graceful 
carriage,  the  set  of  the  shoulders,  the  poise  of 
the  head. 


i66  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

To  be  sure  one  runs  the  risk  of  being  de- 
ceived in  this  matter.  The  actress  who  plays 
the  part  of  an  unaffected  young  girl,  for  aught 
that  the  spectator  knows  to  the  contrary  may 
be  a  pronounced  woman  of  the  world.  Not 
every  author  who  says  to  the  public  'excuse 
my  untaught  manner '  is  on  this  account  to  be 
regarded  as  a  literary  ingenu.  His  simplicity 
awakens  distrust.  The  fact  that  he  professes 
to  be  a  layman  is  a  reason  for  suspecting  him. 
He  is  probably  an  adept,  a  master  of  the  wiles 
by  which  readers  are  snared 

But  aside  from  the  cases  in  which  deception 
is  practiced,  or  at  least  attempted,  there  is  in 
the  world  a  respectable  body  of  literature  which 
is  not  the  work  of  literary  men.  Its  chief 
characteristic  is  sincerity.  The  writers  of  these 
books  are  so  busy  in  telling  the  truth  that  they 
have  no  time  to  think  of  literature. 

Among  the  more  readable  of  these  pieces  is 
that  unpretentious  volume  in  which  Dr.  Joseph 
Priestley  relates  the  story  of  his  life.  For  in 
classing  this  book  with  the  writings  of  authors 
who  are  not  men  of  letters  one  surely  does  not 
go  wide  of  the  mark.  There  is  a  sense  in 
which  it  is  entirely  proper  to  say  that  Priestley 
was  not  a  literary  man.  He  produced  twenty- 
five  volumes  of  *  works,'  but  they  were  for  use 
rather  than  for  art.  He  wrote  on  science,  on 
grammar,  on  theology,  on  law.  He  published 
controversial  tracts:    'Did    So-and-So   believe 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  167 

so-and-so  or  something  quite  different  ? '  and 
then  a  discussion  of  the  '  grounds '  of  this  be- 
lief. He  made  'rejoinders,'  'defenses,'  'ani- 
madversions,' and  printed  the  details  of  his 
Experiments  on  Different  Kinds  of  Air.  This 
is  distinctly  uninviting.  Let  me  propose  an 
off-hand  test  by  which  to  determine  whether  or 
no  a  given  book  is  literature.  Can  you  imagine 
Charles  Lamb  in  the  act  of  reading  that  book  ? 
If  you  can;  it 's  literature  ;  if  you  can't,  it  is  n't. 
I  find  it  difficult  to  conceive  of  Charles  Lamb 
as  mentally  immersed  in  the  Letter  to  an  Anti- 
pcEdobaptist  or  the  Doctrine  of  Phlogiston 
Established,  but  it  is  natural  to  think  of  him 
turning  the  pages  of  Priestley's  Memoir,  read- 
ing each  page  with  honest  satisfaction  and  pro- 
nouncing the  volume  to  be  worthy  the  title  of 
A  BOOK. 

It  is  a  plain  unvarnished  tale  and  entirely 
innocent  of  those  arts  by  the  practice  of  which 
authors  please  their  public.  There  is  no  elo- 
quence, no  rhetoric,  no  fine  writing  of  any  sort. 
The  two  or  three  really  dramatic  events  in 
Priestley's  career  are  not  handled  with  a  view 
to  producing  dramatic  effect.  There  are  places 
where  the  author  might  easily  have  become 
impassioned.  But  he  did  not  become  impas- 
sioned. Not  a  few  paragraphs  contain  unwrit- 
ten poems.  The  simple-hearted  Priestley  was 
unconscious  of  this,  or  if  conscious,  then  too 
modest  to  make  capital  of  it.     He  had  never 


168  A  FAIR-MINDED  MAN 

aspired  to  the  reputation  of  a  clever  writer,  but 
rather  of  a  useful  one.  His  aim  was  quite  as 
simple  when  he  wrote  the  Memoir  as  when  he 
wrote  his  various  philosophical  reports.  He 
never  deviated  into  brilliancy.  He  set  down 
plain  statements  about  events  which  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  and  people  whom  he  had  known. 
Nevertheless  the  narrative  is  charming,  and  the 
reasons  of  its  charm  are  in  part  these  :  — 

In  the  first  place  the  book  belongs  to  that 
department  of  literature  known  as  autobiogra- 
phy. Autobiography  has  peculiar  virtues.  The 
poorest  of  it  is  not  without  some  flavor  of  life, 
and  at  its  best  it  is  transcendent.  A  notable 
value  lies  in  its  power  to  stimulate.  This 
power  is  very  marked  in  Priestley's  case,  where 
the  self-delineated  portrait  is  of  a  man  who  met 
and  overcame  enormous  difficulties.  He  knew 
poverty  and  calumny,  both  brutal  things.  He 
had  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  —  for  so  he  himself 
characterized  that  impediment  in  his  speech 
which  he  tried  more  or  less  unsuccessfully  all 
his  life  to  cure.  He  found  his  scientific  use- 
fulness impaired  by  religious  and  political 
antagonisms.  He  tasted  the  bitterness  of  mob 
violence ;  his  house  was  sacked,  his  philosophi- 
cal instruments  destroyed,  his  manuscripts  and 
books  scattered  along  the  highway.  But  as  he 
looked  back  upon  these  things  he  was  not 
moved  to  impatience.  There  is  a  high  serenity 
in  his  narrative  as  becomes  a  man  who  has 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  169 

learned  to  distinguish  between  the  ephemeral 
and  the  permanent  elements  of  life. 

Yet  it  is  not  impossible  that  autobiography 
of  this  sort  has  an  effect  the  reverse  of  stimu- 
lating upon  some  people.  It  is  pleasanter  to 
read  of  heroes  than  to  be  a  hero  oneself.  The 
story  of  conquest  is  inspiring,  but  the  actual 
process  is  apt  to  be  tedious.  One's  nerves  are 
tuned  to  a  fine  energy  in  reading  of  Priestley's 
efforts  to  accomplish  a  given  task.  *  I  spent 
the  latter  part  of  every  week  with  Mr.  Thomas, 
a  Baptist  minister,  .  .  .  who  had  no  liberal 
education.  Him  I  instructed  in  Hebrew,  and 
by  that  means  made  myself  a  considerable  pro- 
ficient in  that  language.  At  the  same  time  I 
learned  Chaldee  and  Syriac  and  just  began  to 
read  Arabic'  This  seems  easy  in  the  telling, 
but  in  reality  it  was  a  long,  a  monotonous,  an 
exhausting  process.  Think  of  the  expenditure 
of  hours  and  eyesight  over  barbarous  alphabets 
and  horrid  grammatical  details.  One  must 
needs  have  had  a  mind  of  leather  to  endure  such 
philological  and  linguistic  wear  and  tear.  Priest- 
ley's mind  not  only  cheerfully  endured  it  but 
actually  toughened  under  it.  The  man  was 
never  afraid  of  work.  Take  as  an  illustration 
his  experience  in  keeping  school. 

He  had  pronounced  objections  to  this  busi- 
ness, and  he  registered  his  protest.  But  sup- 
pose the  alternative  is  to  teach  school  or  to 
starve.    A  man  will  then  teach  school.    I  don't 


I70  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

know  that  this  was  quite  the  situation  in  which 
Priestley  found  himself,  though  he  needed 
money.  He  may  have  hesitated  to  enter  a  pro- 
fession whiqh  in  his  time  required  a  more  ex- 
tensive muscular  equipment  than  he  was  able 
to  furnish.  The  old  English  schoolmasters 
were  'bruisers.'  They  had  thick  skins,  hard 
heads,  and  solid  fists.  The  symbols  of  their 
office  were  a  Greek  grammar  and  a  flexible  rod. 
They  were  skillful  either  with  the  book  or  the 
birch.  It  has  taken  many  years  to  convince 
the  world  that  the  short  road  to  the  moods  and 
tenses  does  not  necessarily  lie  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  flogging.  Perhaps 
Priestley  objected  to  school-mastering  because 
it  was  laborious.  It  was  indeed  laborious  as  he 
practiced  it.  One  marvels  at  his  endurance. 
His  school  consisted  of  about  thirty  boys,  and 
he  had  a  separate  room  for  about  half-a-dozen 
young  ladies.  'Thus  I  was  employed  from 
seven  in  the  morning  until  four  in  the  after- 
noon, without  any  interval  except  one  hour  for 
dinner ;  and  I  never  gave  a  holiday  on  any  con- 
sideration, the  red  letter  days  excepted.  Im- 
mediately after  this  employment  in  my  own 
school-rooms  I  went  to  teach  in  the  family  of 
Mr.  Tomkinson,  an  eminent  attorney,  .  .  .  and 
here  I  continued  until  seven  in  the  evening.' 
Twelve  consecutive  hours  of  teaching,  less  one 
hour  for  dinner !  It  was  hardly  necessary  for 
Priestley  to  add  that  he  had  *  but  little  leisure 
for  reading.' 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  171 

He  laid  up  no  money  from  teaching,  but  like 
a  true  man  of  genius  spent  it  upon  books,  a 
small  air-pump,  an  electrical  machine.  By 
training  his  advanced  pupils  to  manipulate 
these  he  'extended  the  reputation'  of  his 
school.  This  was  playing  at  science.  Several 
years  were  yet  to  elapse  before  he  should  ac- 
quire fame  as  an  original  investigator. 

This  autobiography  is  valuable  because  it 
illustrates  the  events  of  a  remarkable  time. 
He  who  cares  about  the  history  of  theological 
opinion,  the  history  of  chemical  science,  the 
history  of  liberty,  will  read  these  pages  with 
keen  interest.  Priestley  was  active  in  each  of 
these  fields.  Men  famous  for  their  connection 
with  the  great  movements  of  the  period  were 
among  his  friends  and  acquaintance.  He  knew 
Franklin  and  Richard  Price.  John  Canton, 
who  was  the  first  man  in  England  to  verify 
Franklin's  experiments,  was  a  friend  of  Priest- 
ley. So  too  were  Smeaton  the  engineer,  James 
Watt,  Boulton,  Josiah  Wedgewood,  and  Eras- 
mus Darwin.  He  knew  Kippis,  Lardner,  Parr, 
and  had  met  Porson  and  Dr.  Johnson.  His 
closest  friend  for  many  years  was  Theophilus 
Lindsey.  One  might  also  mention  the  great 
Lavoisier,  Magellan  the  Jesuit  philosopher,  and 
a  dozen  other  scientific,  ecclesiastical,  and  polit- 
ical celebrities.  The  Memoir,  however,  is  al- 
most as  remarkable  for  what  it  does  not  tell 
concerning  these  people  as  for  what  it  does. 


172  A   FAIR-MINDED    MAN 

Priestley  was  not  anecdotal.  And  he  is  only  a 
little  less  reticent  about  himself  than  he  is 
about  others.  He  does  indeed  describe  his  early 
struggles  as  a  dissenting  minister,  but  the 
reader  would  like  a  little  more  expansiveness  in 
the  account  of  his  friendships  and  his  chemical 
discoveries.  These  discoveries  were  made  dur- 
ing the  time  that  he  was  minister  at  the  Mill- 
hill  Chapel,  Leeds.  Here  he  began  the  serious 
study  of  chemistry.  And  that  without  training 
in  the  science  as  it  was  then  understood.  At 
Warrington  he  had  heard  a  series  of  chemical 
lectures  by  Dr.  Turner  of  Liverpool,  a  gentle- 
man whom  Americans  ought  to  regard  with 
amused  interest,  for  he  was  the  man  who  con- 
gratulated his  fellows  in  a  Liverpool  debating 
society  that  while  they  had  just  lost  the  terra 
firma  of  thirteen  colonies  in  America,  they  had 
gained,  under  the  generalship  of  Dr.  Herschel, 
a  terra  incognita  of  much  greater  extent  in 
nuhibus.  Priestley  not  only  began  his  experi- 
ments without  any  great  store  of  knowledge, 
but  also  without  apparatus  save  what  he  devised 
for  himself  of  the  cheapest  materials.  In  1 772 
he  published  his  first  important  scientific  tract, 
'  a  small  pamphlet  on  the  method  of  impregnat- 
ing water  with  fixed  air.'  For  this  he  received 
the  Copley  medal  from  the  Royal  Society.  On 
the  first  of  August,  1 774,  he  discovered  oxygen. 
Nobody  in  Leeds  troubled  particularly  to  in- 
quire what  this  dissenting  minister  was  about 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  173 

with  his  vials  and  tubes,  his  mice  and  his 
plants.  Priestley  says  that  the  only  person 
who  took  *  much  interest '  was  Mr.  Hey,  a  sur- 
geon. Mr.  Hey  was  a  'zealous  Methodist'  and 
wrote  answers  to  Priestley's  theological  papers. 
Arminian  and  Socinian  were  at  peace  if  science 
was  the  theme.  When  Priestley  departed  from 
Leeds,  Hey  begged  of  him  the  'earthen  trough' 
in  which  all  his  experiments  had  been  made. 
This  earthen  trough  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  washtub  of  the  sort  in  common  local 
use.  So  independent  is  genius  of  the  elaborate 
appliances  with  which  talent  must  produce  re- 
sults. 

The  discoveries  brought  fame,  especially 
upon  the  Continent,  and  led  Lord  Shelburne 
to  invite  Priestley  to  become  his  '  literary  com- 
panion.' Dr.  Price  was  the  intermediary  in 
effecting  this  arrangement.  Priestley's  nomi- 
nal post  was  that  of  '  librarian,'  and  he  now  and 
then  officiated  as  experimentalist  extraordinary 
before  Lord  Shelburne' s  guests.  The  com- 
pensation was  not  illiberal,  and  the  relation 
seems  to  have  been  as  free  from  degrading  ele- 
ments as  such  relations  can  be.  Priestley  was 
not  a  sycophant  even  in  the  day  when  men  of 
genius  thought  it  no  great  sin  to  give  flattery 
in  exchange  for  dinners.  It  was  never  his 
habit  to  burn  incense  before  the  great  simply 
because  the  great  liked  the  smell  of  incense  and 
were  accustomed  to  it.      On  the  other  hand, 


174  A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

Shelbume  appears  to  have  treated  the  philo- 
sopher with  kindness  and  delicacy,  and  the  situ- 
ation was  not  without  difficulties  for  his  lord- 
ship. 

Among  obvious  advantages  which  Priestley 
derived  from  this  residence  were  freedom  from 
financial  worry,  time  for  writing  and  experi- 
menting, a  tour  on  the  Continent,  and  the  priv- 
ilege of  spending  the  winter  season  of  each 
year  in  London. 

It  was  during  these  London  visits  that  he 
renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Dr.  Franklin. 
They  were  members  of  a  club  of  '  philosophical 
gentlemen '  which  met  at  stated  times  at  the 
London  Coffee  House,  Ludgate  Hill.  There 
were  few  days  upon  which  the  Father  of  Pneu- 
matic Chemistry  and  the  Father  of  Electrical 
Science  did  not  meet.  When  their  talk  was 
not  of  dephlogisticated  air  and  like  matters  it 
was  pretty  certain  to  be  political.  The  war 
between  England  and  America  was  imminent. 
Franklin  dreaded  it.  He  often  said  to  Priest- 
ley that  *  if  the  difference  should  come  to  an 
open  rupture,  it  would  be  a  war  of  ten  years, 
and  he  should  not  live  to  see  the  end  of  it.' 
He  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  issue.  *  The  Eng- 
lish may  take  all  our  great  towns,  but  that  will 
not  give  them  possession  of  the  country,'  he 
used  to  say.  Franklin's  last  day  in  England 
was  given  to  Priestley.  The  two  friends  spent 
much  of  the  time  in  reading  American  news- 


A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN  175 

papers,  especially  accounts  of  the  reception 
which  the  Boston  Port  Bill  met  with  in  Amer- 
ica, and  as  Franklin  read  the  addresses  to  the 
inhabitants  of  Boston,  from  the  places  in  the 
neighborhood,  *the  tears  trickled  down  his 
cheeks.'  He  wrote  to  Priestley  from  Philadel- 
phia just  a  month  after  the  battle  of  Lexington, 
briefly  describing  that  lively  episode,  and  men- 
tioning his  pleasant  six  weeks  voyage  with 
weather  'so  moderate  that  a  London  wherry 
might  have  accompanied  us  all  the  way.'  At 
the  close  of  his  letter  he  says :  *  In  coming 
over  I  made  a  valuable  philosophical  discovery, 
which  I  shall  communicate  to  you  when  I  can 
get  a  little  time.  At  present  I  am  extremely 
hurried.'  In  October  of  that  year,  1775,  Frank- 
lin wrote  to  Priestley  about  the  state  of  affairs 
in  America.  His  letter  contains  one  passage 
which  can  hardly  be  hackneyed  from  over-quo- 
tation. Franklin  wants  Priestley  to  tell  '  our 
dear  good  friend,'  Dr.  Price,  that  America  is 
'determined  and  unanimous.'  'Britain  at  the 
expense  of  three  millions  has  kUled  150  yankees 
this  campaign,  which  is  20,000  1.  a  head ;  and 
at  Bunker's  Hill,  she  gained  a  mile  of  ground, 
all  of  which  she  lost  again,  by  our  taking  post 
on  Ploughed  Hill.  During  the  same  time 
60,000  children  have  been  bom  in  America.' 
From  these  data  Dr.  Price  is  to  calculate  'the 
time  and  expense  necessary  to  kill  us  all,  and 
conquer  the  whole  of  our  territory.'     Then  the 


176  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

letter  closes  with  greetings  *  to  the  club  of  hon- 
est whigs  at  the  London  Coffee  House.' 

Seven  years  later  Franklin's  heart  was  still 
faithful  to  the  club.  He  writes  to  Priestley 
from  France :  *  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever,  and 
I  love  all  the  honest  souls  that  meet  at  the 
London  Coffee  House.  ...  I  labor  for  peace 
with  more  earnestness  that  I  may  again  be 
happy  in  your  sweet  society.'  Franklin  thought 
that  war  was  folly.  In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Price, 
he  speaks  of  the  great  improvements  in  natural 
philosophy,  and  then  says :  *  There  is  one  im- 
provement in  moral  philosophy  which  I  wish  to 
see :  the  discovery  of  a  plan  that  would  induce 
and  oblige  nations  to  settle  their  disputes  with- 
out first  cutting  one  another's  throats.' 

Priestley  lamented  that  a  man  of  Franklin's 
character  and  influence  'should  have  been  an 
unbeliever  in  Christianity,  and  also  have  done 
as  much  as  he  did  to  make  others  unbelievers.' 
Franklin  acknowledged  that  he  had  not  given 
much  attention  to  the  evidences  of  Christianity, 
and  asked  Priestley  to  recommend  some  *  treat- 
ises *  on  the  subject  *  but  not  of  great  length.' 
Priestley  suggested  certain  chapters  of  Hart- 
ley's Observations  on  Man,  and  also  what  he 
himself  had  written  on  the  subject  in  his  In- 
stitutes of  Natural  and  Revealed  Religion. 
Franklin  had  promised  to  read  whatever  books 
his  friend  might  advise  and  give  his  *  sentiments 
on  them.'    'But  the  American  war  breaking  out 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  177 

soon  after,  I  do  not  believe,'  says  Priestley, 
*  that  he  ever  found  himself  sufficiently  at  lei- 
sure for  the  discussion.' 

Priestley  valued  his  own  scientific  reputation 
not  a  little  for  the  weight  it  gave,  among  skep- 
tics, to  his  arguments  in  support  of  his  religious 
belief.  He  found  that  all  the  philosophers  in 
Paris  were  unbelievers.  They  looked  at  him 
with  mild  astonishment  when  they  learned  that 
he  was  not  of  the  same  mind.  They  may  even 
have  thought  him  a  phenomenon  which  re- 
quired scientific  investigation.  *  As  I  chose  on 
all  occasions  to  appear  as  a  Christian,  I  was 
told  by  some  of  them  that  I  was  the  only  per- 
son they  had  ever  met  with,  of  whose  under- 
standing they  had  any  opinion,  who  professed 
to  believe  Christianity.'  Priestley  began  to 
question  them  as  to  what  they  supposed  Chris- 
tianity was,  and  with  the  usual  result,  —  they 
were  not  posted  on  the  subject. 

In  1780  Priestley  went  to  Birmingham.  In 
the  summer  of  1791  occurred  that  remarkable 
riot,  perhaps  the  most  dramatic  event  in  the 
philosopher's  not  unpicturesque  career.  This 
storm  had  long  been  gathering,  and  when  it 
broke,  the  principal  victim  of  its  anger  was,  I 
verily  believe,  more  astonished  than  frightened. 
The  Dissenters  were  making  unusual  efforts  to 
have  some  of  their  civil  disabilities  removed. 
Feeling  against  them  was  especially  bitter.  In 
Birmingham  this   hostility  was  intensified  by 


178  A   FAIR-MINDED    MAN 

the  public  discourses  of  Mr.  Madan,  '  the  most 
respectable  clergyman  of  the  town,'  says  Priest- 
ley. He  published  *a  very  inflammatory  ser- 
mon .  .  .  inveighing  against  the  Dissenters  in 
general,  and  myself  in  particular.'  Priestley 
made  a  defense  under  the  title  of  Familiar 
Letters  to  the  Inhabitants  of  Birmingham. 
This  produced  a  'reply'  from  Madan,  and 
'other  letters'  from  his  opponent.  Being  a 
conspicuous  representative  of  that  body  which 
was  most  '  obnoxious  to  the  court '  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Priestley  should  have  been  singled 
out  for  unwelcome  honors.  The  feeling  of 
intolerance  was  unusually  strong.  It  was  said 
—  I  don't  know  how  truly  —  that  at  a  confir- 
mation in  Birmingham  tracts  were  distributed 
against  Socinianism  in  general  and  Priestley  in 
particular.  Very  reputable  men  thought  they 
did  God  service  in  inflaming  the  minds  of  the 
rabble  against  this  liberal-minded  gentleman. 
Priestley's  account  of  the  riot  in  the  Memoir 
is  singularly  temperate.  It  might  even  be 
called  tame.  He  was  quite  incapable  of  posing, 
or  of  playing  martyr  to  an  audience  of  which 
a  goodly  part  was  sympathetic  and  ready  to 
believe  his  sufferings  as  great  as  he  chose  to 
make  them  appear.  One  could  forgive  a  slight 
outburst  of  indignation  had  the  doctor  chosen 
so  to  relieve  himself.  'On  occasion  of  the 
celebration  of  the  anniversary  of  the  French 
revolution,  on  July  14,  1791,  by  several  of  ray 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  179 

friends,  but  with  which  I  had  little  to  do,  a  mob, 
encouraged  by  some  persons  in  power,  first 
burned  the  meeting-house  in  which  I  preached, 
then  another  meeting-house  in  the  town,  and 
then  my  dwelling-house,  demolishing  my  library, 
apparatus,  and  as  far  as  they  could  everything 
belonging  to  me.  .  .  .  Being  in  some  personal 
danger  on  this  occasion  I  went  to  London.' 

A  much  livelier  account  from  Priestley's 
own  hand  and  written  the  next  day  after  the 
riot  is  found  in  a  letter  to  Theophilus  Lindsay. 
'  The  company  were  hardly  gone  from  the  inn 
before  a  drunken  mob  rushed  into  the  house 
and  broke  all  the  windows.  They  then  set  fire 
to  our  meeting-house  and  it  is  burned  to  the 
ground.  After  that  they  gutted,  and  some  say 
burned  the  old  meeting.  In  the  mean  time 
some  friends  came  to  tell  me  that  I  and  my 
house  were  threatened,  and  another  brought  a 
chaise  to  convey  me  and  my  wife  away.  I  had 
not  presence  of  mind  to  take  even  my  MSS. ; 
and  after  we  were  gone  the  mob  came  and  de- 
molished everything,  household  goods,  library, 
and  apparatus.'  The  letter  differs  from  the 
Memoir  in  saying  that  'happily  no  fire  could 
be  got.'  Priestley  afterwards  heard  that  'much 
pains  was  taken,  but  without  effect,  to  get  fire 
from  my  large  electrical  machine  which  stood  in 
the  Library.' 

It  is  rather  a  curious  fact  that  Priestley  was 
not  at  the  inn  where  the  anniversary  was  cele- 


i8o  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

brating.  While  the  company  there  were  chant- 
ing the  praises  of  liberty  he  was  at  home  play- 
ing backgammon  with  his  wife,  a  remarkably 
innocent  and  untreasonable  occupation.  Mr. 
Arthur  Young  visited  the  scene  of  the  riot  a 
few  days  later  and  had  thoughts  upon  it.  *  See- 
ing, as  I  passed,  a  house  in  ruins,  on  inquiry  I 
found  that  it  was  Dr.  Priestley's.  I  alighted 
from  my  horse,  and  walked  over  the  ruins  of 
that  laboratory  which  I  had  left  home  with  the 
expectation  of  reaping  instruction  in ;  of  that 
laboratory,  the  labours  of  which  have  not  only 
illuminated  mankind  but  enlarged  the  sphere 
of  science  itself  ;  which  has  carried  its  master's 
fame  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  civilized 
world ;  and  will  now  with  equal  celerity  con- 
vey the  infamy  of  its  destruction  to  the  dis- 
grace of  the  age  and  the  scandal  of  the  British 
name.'  It  is  not  necessary  to  supplement 
Arthur  Young's  burst  of  indignation  with  pri- 
vate bursts  of  our  own.  We  can  afford  to  be 
as  philosophic  over  the  matter  as  Priestley  was. 
That  feeling  was  hot  against  him  even  in  Lon- 
don is  manifest  from  the  fact  that  the  day  after 
his  arrival  a  hand-bill  was  distributed  beginning 
with  the  words :  '  Dr.  Priestley  is  a  damned 
rascal,  an  enemy  both  to  the  religious  and  polit- 
ical constitution  of  this  country,  a  fellow  of  a 
treasonable  mind,  consequently  a  bad  Chris- 
tian.' The  'bad  Christian'  thought  it  showed 
*no  small  degree  of  courage'  in  Mr.  William 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  i8i 

Vaughan  to  receive  him  into  his  house.  'But 
it  showed  more  in  Dr.  Price's  congregation  at 
Hackney  to  invite  me  to  succeed  him.'  The 
invitation  was  not  unanimous,  as  Priestley  with 
his  characteristic  passion  for  exactness  is  at 
pains  to  tell  the  reader.  Some  of  the  members 
withdrew,  'which  was  not  undesirable.' 

People  generally  looked  askance  at  him.  If 
he  was  upon  one  side  of  the  street  the  respect- 
able part  of  the  world  made  it  convenient  to 
pass  by  on  the  other  side.  He  even  found  his 
relations  with  his  philosophical  acquaintance 
'much  restricted.'  'Most  of  the  members  of 
the  Royal  Society  shunned  him,'  he  says.  This 
seems  amusing  and  unfortunate.  Apparently 
one's  qualifications  as  a  scientist  were  of  little 
avail  if  one  happened  to  hold  heterodox  views 
on  the  Trinity,  or  were  of  opinion  that  more 
liberty  than  Englishmen  then  had  would  be 
good  for  them.  Priestley  resigned  his  fellow- 
ship in  the  Royal  Society. 

One  does  not  need  even  mildly  to  anathema- 
tize the  instigators  of  that  historic  riot.  They 
were  unquestionably  zealous  for  what  they  be- 
lieved to  be  the  truth.  Moreover,  as  William 
Hutton  observed  at  the  time,  '  It 's  the  right  of 
every  Englishman  to  walk  in  darkness  if  he 
chooses.'  The  method  employed  defeated  its 
own  end.  Persecution  is  an  imsafe  investment 
and  at  best  pays  a  low  rate  of  interest.  No 
dignified  person  can  afford  to  indulge  in  it. 


i82  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

There's  the  danger  of  being  held  up  to  the 
laughter  of  posterity.  It  has  happened  so 
many  times  that  the  unpopular  cause  has  be- 
come popular.  This  ought  to  teach  zealots  to 
be  cautious.  What  would  Madan  have  thought 
if  he  could  have  been  told  that  within  thirty 
years  one  of  his  own  coadjutors  in  this  affair 
would  have  publicly  expressed  regret  for  the 
share  he  had  in  it  ?  Madan  has  his  reward, 
three  quarters  of  a  column  in  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography.  But  to-day  Priestley's 
statue  stands  in  a  public  square  of  Birming- 
ham opposite  the  Council  House.  Thus  do 
matters  get  themselves  readjusted  in  this  very 
interesting  world. 

Rutt's  Life  of  Priestley  (that  remarkable  illus- 
tration of  how  to  make  a  very  poor  book  out 
of  the  best  materials)  contains  a  selection  of 
the  addresses  and  letters  of  condolence  which 
were  forthcoming  at  this  tima  Some  of  them 
are  stilted  and  dull,  but  they  are  actual  *  docu- 
ments,' and  the  words  in  them  are  alive  with 
the  passion  of  that  day.  They  make  the  trans- 
action very  real  and  close  at  hand. 

Priestley  was  comparatively  at  ease  in  his 
new  home.  Yet  he  could  not  entirely  escape 
punishment.  There  were  *a  few  personal  in- 
sults from  the  lowest  of  the  rabble.'  Anxiety 
was  felt  lest  he  might  again  receive  the  atten- 
tions of  a  mob.  He  humorously  remarked  :  *  On 
the  14th  of  July,  1792,  it  was  taken  for  granted 


A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN  183 

by  many  of  my  neighbors  that  my  house  was 
to  come  down  just  as  at  Birmingham  the  year 
before.'  The  house  did  not  come  down,  but 
its  occupant  grew  ill  at  ease,  and  within  another 
two  years  he  had  found  a  new  home  in  the  new 
nation  across  the  sea 

It  is  hardly  exact  to  say  that  he  was  *  driven ' 
from  England,  as  some  accounts  of  his  life  have 
it.  Mere  personal  unpopularity  would  not  have 
sufficed  for  this.  But  at  sixty-one  a  man 
has  n't  as  much  fight  in  him  as  at  forty-five. 
He  is  not  averse  to  quiet.  Priestley's  three 
sons  were  going  to  America  because  their 
father  thought  that  they  could  not  be  *  placed ' 
to  advantage  in  a  country  so  *  bigoted '  as  their 
native  land  was  then.  '  My  own  situation,  if 
not  hazardous,  was  become  unpleasant,  so  that 
I  thought  my  removal  would  be  of  more  service 
to  the  cause  of  truth  than  my  longer  stay  in 
England.' 

The  sons  went  first  and  laid  the  foundations 
of  the  home  in  Northumberland,  Pennsylvania. 
The  word  'Susquehanna'  had  a  magic  sound 
to  Englishmen.  On  March  30,  1794,  Priestley 
delivered  his  farewell  discourse.  April  6  he 
passed  with  his  friends  the  Lindsays  in  Essex 
Street,  and  a  day  later  went  to  Gravesend. 
For  the  details  of  the  journey  one  must  go  to 
his  correspondence. 

His  last  letters  were  written  from  Deal  and 
Falmouth,  April  9  and  11.     The  vessel  was 


i84  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

six  weeks  in  making  the  passage.  The  weather 
was  bad  and  the  travelers  experienced  every- 
thing *  but  shipwreck  and  famine.'  There  was 
no  lack  of  entertainment,  for  the  ocean  was 
fantastic  and  spectacular.  Not  alone  were 
there  the  usual  exhibitions  of  flying-fish,  whales, 
porpoises,  and  sharks,  but  also  'mountains  of 
ice  larger  than  the  captain  had  ever  seen  be- 
fore,' —  for  thus  early  had  transatlantic  captains 
learned  the  art  of  pronouncing  upon  the  excep- 
tional character  of  a  particular  voyage  for  the 
benefit  of  the  traveler  who  is  making  that  voy- 
age. They  saw  water-spouts,  'four  at  one 
time.'  The  billows  were  'mountain-high,  and 
at  night  appeared  to  be  all  on  fire.'  They  had 
infinite  leisure,  and  scarcely  knew  how  to  use 
it.  Mrs.  Priestley  wrote  'thirty -two  large 
pages  of  paper.'  The  doctor  read  'the  whole 
of  the  Greek  Testament  and  the  Hebrew  Bible 
as  far  as  the  first  book  of  Samuel.'  He  also 
read  through  Hartley's  second  volume,  and 
'for  amusement  several  books  of  voyages  and 
Ovid's  Metamorphoses.'  'If  I  had  [had]  a 
Virgil  I  should  have  read  him  through,  too.  I 
read  a  great  deal  of  Buchanan's  poems,  and 
some  of  Petrarch's  de  remediisy  and  Erasmus's 
Dialogues ;  also  Peter  Pindar's  poems,  ,  .  . 
which  pleased  me  much  more  than  I  expected. 
He  is  Paine  in  verse.' 

On  June  i  the  ship  reached  Sandy  Hook. 
Three  days  later  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Priestley  '  landed 


A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN  185 

at  the  Battery  in  as  private  a  manner  as  possi- 
ble, and  went  immediately  to  Mrs.  Loring's 
lodging-house  close  by.'  The  next  morning 
the  principal  inhabitants  of  New  York  came  to 
pay  their  respects  and  congratulations  ;  among 
others  Governor  Clinton,  Dr.  Prevoost,  bishop 
of  New  York ;  Mr.  Osgood,  late  envoy  to  Great 
Britain ;  the  heads  of  the  college ;  most  of  the 
principal  merchants,  and  many  others ;  for  an 
account  of  which  amenities  one  must  read 
Henry  Wansey's  Excursion  to  the  United  States 
in  the  Summer  of  171^4,  published  by  Salisbury 
in  1796,  a  most  amusing  and  delectable  volume. 

Priestley  missed  seeing  Vice-president  John 
Adams  by  one  day.  Adams  had  sailed  for  Bos- 
ton on  the  third.  But  he  left  word  that  Boston 
was  *  better  calculated '  for  Priestley  than  any 
other  part  of  America,  and  that  '  he  would  find 
himself  very  well  received  if  he  should  be  in- 
clined to  settle  there.' 

Mrs.  Priestley  in  a  letter  home  says  :  *  Dr.  P. 
is  wonderfully  pleased  with  everything,  and 
indeed  I  think  he  has  great  reason  from  the 
attentions  paid  him.'  The  good  people  became 
almost  frivolous  with  their  dinner-parties,  recep- 
tions, calls,  and  so  forth.  Then  there  were 
the  usual  addresses  from  the  various  organiza- 
tions, —  one  from  the  Tammany  Society,  who 
described  themselves  as  *a  numerous  body  of 
freemen,  who  associate  to  cultivate  among 
them  the  love  of  liberty,  and  the  enjoyment  of 


i86  A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

the  happy  republican  government  under  which 
they  live.'  There  was  an  address  from  the 
*  Democratic  Society,'  one  from  the  *  Associated 
Teachers  in  the  City  of  New  York,'  one  from 
the  *  Republican  Natives  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland,'  one  from  the  'Medical  Society.' 

The  pleasure  was  not  unmixed.  Dr.  Priest- 
ley the  theologian  had  a  less  cordial  reception 
than  Dr.  Priestley  the  philosopher  and  martyr. 
The  orthodox  were  considerably  disturbed  by 
his  coming.  *  Nobody  asks  me  to  preach,  and 
I  hear  there  is  much  jealousy  and  dread  of  me.' 
In  Philadelphia  at  a  Baptist  meeting  the  minis- 
ter bade  his  people  beware,  for  *  a  Priestley  had 
entered  the  land.'  But  the  heretic  was  very- 
patient  and  earnest  to  do  what  he  might  for 
the  cause  of  *  rational '  Christianity.  The  wide- 
spread infidelity  distressed  him.  He  mentioned 
it  as  a  thing  to  be  wondered  at  that  in  America 
the  lawyers  were  almost  universally  unbeliev- 
ers. He  lost  no  time  in  getting  to  work.  On 
August  27,  when  he  had  been  settled  in  North- 
umberland only  a  month,  he  wrote  to  a  friend 
that  he  had  just  got  Paine's  Age  of  Reason,  and 
thought  to  answer  it.  By  September  14  he 
had  done  so.  '  I  have  transcribed  for  the  press 
my  answer  to  Mr.  Paine,  whose  work  is  the 
weakest  and  most  absurd  as  well  as  most  arro- 
gant of  anything  I  have  yet  seen.' 

Priestley  was  fully  conscious  of  the  humor  of 
his  situation.     He  was  trying  to  save  the  pub- 


A   FAIR-MINDED   MAN  187 

lie,  including  lawyers,  from  the  mentally  debili- 
tating effects  of  reading  Paine's  Age  of  Reason, 
while  at  the  same  time  all  the  orthodox  divines 
were  warning  their  flocks  of  the  danger  conse- 
quent upon  having  anything  to  do  with  him. 

Honors  and  rumors  of  honors  came  to  him. 
He  was  talked  of  for  the  presidency  of  colleges 
yet  to  be  founded,  and  was  invited  to  professor- 
ships in  colleges  that  actually  were.  He  went 
occasionally  to  Philadelphia,  a  frightful  journey 
from  Northumberland  in  those  days.  Through 
his  influence  a  Unitarian  society  was  estab- 
lished. He  gave  public  discourses,  and  there 
was  considerable  curiosity  to  see  and  hear  so 
famous  a  man.  '  I  have  the  use  of  Mr.  Win- 
chester's pulpit  every  morning  .  .  .  and  yester- 
day preached  my  first  sermon.'  He  was  told 
that  'a  great  proportion  of  the  members  of 
Congress  were  present,'  and  we  know  that 
*Mr.  Vice-President  Adams  was  a  regular  at- 
tendant. ' 

In  company  with  his  friend  Mr.  Russell, 
Priestley  went  to  take  tea  with  President  Wash- 
ington. They  stayed  two  hours  *  as  in  any  pri- 
vate family,'  and  at  leavetaking  were  invited 
*  to  come  at  any  time  without  ceremony.' 

About  a  year  later  Priestley  saw  again  Wash- 
ington, who  had  finished  his  second  term  of 
office.  *  I  went  to  take  leave  of  the  late  presi- 
dent. He  seemed  not  to  be  in  very  good  spir- 
its.    He  invited  me  to  Mt.  Vernon,  and  said  he 


i88  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

thought  he  should  hardly  go  from  home  twenty- 
miles  as  long  as  he  lived.' 

Priestley  was  not  to  have  the  full  measure  of 
the  rest  which  he  coveted.  He  had  left  Eng- 
land to  escape  persecution,  and  persecution  fol- 
lowed him.  Cobbett,  who  had  assailed  him  in 
a  scurrilous  pamphlet  at  the  time  of  his  emi- 
gration, continued  his  attacks.  Priestley  was 
objectionable  because  he  was  a  friend  of  France. 
Moreover  he  had  opinions  about  things,  some 
of  which  he  freely  expressed,  —  a  habit  he  had 
contracted  so  early  in  life  as  to  render  it  hope- 
less that  he  should  ever  break  himself  of  it. 
Cobbett's  virulence  was  so  great  as  to  excite 
the  astonishment  of  Mr.  Adams,  who  said  to 
Priestley,  '  I  wonder  why  the  man  abuses  you ; ' 
when  a  hint  from  Adams,  Priestley  thought, 
would  have  prevented  it  all.  But  it  was  not 
easy  to  control  William  Cobbett.  Adams  may 
have  thought  that  Cobbett  was  a  being  created 
for  the  express  purpose  of  being  let  alone. 
There  are  such  beings.  Every  one  knows,  or 
can  guess,  to  what  sort  of  animal  Churton  Col- 
lins compared  Dean  Swift,  when  the  Dean  was 
in  certain  moods.  William  Cobbett,  too,  had  his 
moods. 

Yet  it  is  impossible  to  read  Priestley's  letters 
between  1798  and  1801  without  indignation 
against  those  who  preyed  upon  his  peace  of 
mind.  He  writes  to  Lindsay :  *  It  is  nothing 
but  a  firm  faith  in  a  good  Providence  that  is 


A  FAIR-MINDED  MAN  189 

my  support  at  present :  but  it  is  an  effectual 
one.'  'His  'never  failing  resource'  was  the 
'daily  study  of  the  Scriptures.'  In  moments 
of  depression  he  loved  to  read  the  introduction 
to  Hartley's  second  volume,  those  noble  pas- 
sages beginning:  'Whatever  be  our  doubts, 
fears,  or  anxieties,  whether  selfish  or  social, 
whether  for  time  or  eternity,  our  only  hope 
and  refuge  must  be  in  the  infinite  power,  know- 
ledge and  goodness  of  God.' 

Priestley  was  indeed  a  remarkable  man.  His 
services  to  science  were  very  great.  He  laid 
the  foundations  of  notable  structures  which, 
however,  other  men  were  to  rear.  He  might 
have  been  a  greater  man  had  he  been  less  ver- 
satile. And  yet  his  versatility  was  one  source 
of  his  greatness.  He  clung  to  old-fashioned 
notions,  defending  the  doctrine  of  *  philogiston ' 
after  it  had  been  abandoned  by  nearly  every 
other  chemist  of  repute.  For  this  he  has  been 
ridiculed.  But  he  was  not  ridiculous,  he  was 
singularly  open-minded.  He  knew  that  his 
reputation  as  a  philosopher  was  under  a  cloud. 
'  Though  all  the  world  is  at  present  against  me, 
I  see  no  reason  to  despair  of  the  old  system ; 
and  yet,  if  I  should  see  reason  to  change  my 
opinion^  I  think  I  should  rather  feel  a  pride  in 
making  the  most  public  acknowledgment  of  it* 
These  are  words  which  Professor  Huxley  might 
well  have  quoted  in  his  beautiful  address  on 
Priestley  delivered  at  Birmingham,  for  they  are 


I90  A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN 

the  perfect  expression  and  symbol  of  the  fair- 
minded  man. 

He  was  as  modest  as  he  was  fair-minded. 
When  it  was  proposed  that  he  should  accom- 
pany Captain  Cook's  expedition  to  the  South 
Seas,  and  the  arrangements  were  really  com- 
pleted, he  was  objected  to  because  of  his  po- 
litical and  religious  opinions.  Dr.  Reinhold 
Foster  was  appointed  in  his  stead.  He  was 
a  person  'far  better  qualified,'  said  Priestley. 
Again  when  he  was  invited  to  take  the  chair  of 
Chemistry  at  Philadelphia  he  refused.  This  for 
several  reasons,  the  chief  of  which  was  that  he 
did  not  believe  himself  fitted  for  it.  One  would 
naturally  suppose  that  the  inventor  of  soda- 
water  and  the  discoverer  of  oxygen  would  have 
been  able  to  give  lectures  to  young  men  on 
chemistry.  But  Priestley  believed  that  he 
*  could  not  have  acquitted  himself  in  it  to  proper 
advantage.'  'Though  I  have  made  discoveries 
in  some  branches  of  chemistry,  I  never  gave 
much  attention  to  the  common  routine  of  it, 
and  know  but  little  of  the  common  processes.' 

Priestley  still  awaits  a  biographer.  The  two 
thick  volumes  compiled  by  Rutt  more  than 
sixty-three  years  ago  have  not  been  reprinted, 
nor  are  they  likely  to  be.  But  a  life  so  precious 
in  its  lessons  should  be  recorded  in  just  terms. 
It  would  be  an  inspiring  book,  and  its  title 
might  well  be  *  The  Story  of  a  Man  of  Charac- 
ter.'    Not  the  least  of  its  virtues  would  consist 


A  FAIR-MINDED   MAN  191 

in  ample  recognition  of  Joseph  Priestley's 
unwavering  confidence  that  all  things  were 
ordered  for  the  best;  and  then  of  his  piety, 
which  prompted  him  to  say,  as  he  looked  back 
upon  his  life  :  *  I  am  thankful  to  that  good  Pro- 
vidence which  always  took  more  care  of  me 
than  ever  I  took  of  myself.' 


CONCERNING  A   RED  WAISTCOAT 

Hero-worship  is  appropriate  only  to  youth. 
With  age  one  becomes  cynical,  or  indifferent, 
or  perhaps  too  busy.  Either  the  sense  of  the 
marvelous  is  dulled,  or  one's  boys  are  just 
entering  college  and  life  is  agreeably  practical 
Marriage  and  family  cares  are  good  if  only  for 
the  reason  that  they  keep  a  man  from  getting 
bored.  But  they  also  stifle  his  yearnings  after 
the  ideal  They  make  hero-worship  appear 
foolish.  How  can  a  man  go  mooning  about 
when  he  has  just  had  a  good  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  snatch  of  what  purports  to  be  the  news, 
while  an  attractive  and  well-dressed  woman  sits 
opposite  him  at  breakfast-table,  and  by  her 
mere  presence,  to  say  nothing  of  her  wit,  com- 
pels him  to  be  respectable  and  to  carry  a  level 
head  ?  The  father  of  a  family  and  husband  of 
a  federated  club  woman  has  no  business  with 
hero-worship.  Let  him  leave  such  folly  to 
beardless  youth. 

But  if  a  man  has  never  outgrown  the  boy 
that  was  in  him,  or  has  never  married,  then 
may  he  do  this  thing.  He  will  be  happy  him- 
self, and  others  will  be  happy  as  they  consider 


CONCERNING  A  RED   WAISTCOAT    193 

him.  Indeed,  there  is  something  altogether 
charming  about  the  personality  of  him  who 
proves  faithful  to  his  early  loves  in  literature 
and  art ;  who  continues  a  graceful  hero-worship 
through  all  the  caprices  of  literary  fortune; 
and  who,  even  though  his  idol  may  have  been 
dethroned,  sets  up  a  private  shrine  at  which  he 
pays  his  devotions,  unmindful  of  the  crowd 
which  hurries  by  on  its  way  to  do  homage  to 
strange  gods. 

Some  men  are  born  to  be  hero-worshipers. 
Theophile  Gautier  is  an  example.  If  one  did 
not  love  Gautier  for  his  wit  and  his  good- 
nature, one  would  certainly  love  him  because 
he  dared  to  be  sentimental.  He  displayed  an 
almost  comic  excess  of  emotion  at  his  first 
meeting  with  Victor  Hugo.  Gautier  smiles  as 
he  tells  the  story ;  but  he  tells  it  exactly,  not 
being  afraid  of  ridicule.  He  went  to  call  upon 
Hugo  with  his  friends  Gerard  de  Nerval  and 
P6trus  Borel.  Twice  he  mounted  the  staircase 
leading  to  the  poet's  door.  His  feet  dragged 
as  if  they  had  been  shod  with  lead  instead  of 
leather.  His  heart  throbbed  ;  cold  sweat 
moistened  his  brow.  As  he  was  on  the  point 
of  ringing  the  bell,  an  idiotic  terror  seized  him, 
and  he  fled  down  the  stairs,  four  steps  at  a 
time,  Gerard  and  P6trus  after  him,  shouting 
with  laughter.  But  the  third  attempt  was  suc- 
cessful. Gautier  saw  Victor  Hugo  —  and 
lived.     The  author  of   Odes  et  Ballades  was 


194    CONCERNING  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

just  twenty-eight  years  old.  Youth  worshiped 
youth  in  those  great  days. 

Gautier  said  little  during  that  visit,  but  he 
stared  at  the  poet  with  all  his  might.  He 
explained  afterwards  that  one  may  look  at  gods, 
kings,  pretty  women,  and  great  poets  rather 
more  scrutinizingly  than  at  other  persons,  and 
this  too  without  annoying  them.  'We  gazed 
at  Hugo  with  admiring  intensity,  but  he  did 
not  appear  to  be  inconvenienced.' 

What  brings  Gautier  especially  to  mind  is 
the  appearance  within  a  few  weeks  of  an  amus- 
ing little  volume  entitled  Le  Romantisme  et 
tMiteur  Renduel.  Its  chief  value  consists,  no 
doubt,  in  what  the  author,  M.  Adolphe  Jullien, 
has  to  say  about  Renduel.  That  noted  pub- 
lisher must  have  been  a  man  of  unusual  gifts 
and  unusual  fortune.  He  was  a  fortunate  man 
because  he  had  the  luck  to  publish  some  of  the 
best  works  of  Victor  Hugo,  Saint e-Beuve,  Th6- 
ophile  Gautier,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Gerard  de 
Nerval,  Charles  Nodier,  and  Paul  Lacroix ;  and 
he  was  a  gifted  man  because  he  was  able  suc- 
cessfully to  manage  his  troop  of  geniuses, 
neither  quarreling  with  them  himself  nor  allow- 
ing them  to  quarrel  overmuch  with  one  another. 
Renduel's  portrait  faces  the  title-page  of  the 
volume,  and  there  are  two  portraits  of  him 
besides.  There  are  fac-similes  of  agreements 
between  the  great  publisher  and  his  geniuses. 
There  is  a  famous  caricature  of  Victor  Hugo 


CONCERNING  A  RED   WAISTCOAT    195 

with  a  brow  truly  monumental.  There  is  a  cari- 
cature of  Alfred  de  Musset  with  a  figure  like 
a  Regency  dandy,  —  a  figure  which  could  have 
been  acquired  only  by  much  patience  and  unre- 
mitted tight-lacing ;  also  one  of  Balzac,  which 
shows  that  that  great  novelist's  waist-line  had 
long  since  disappeared,  and  that  he  had  long 
since  ceased  to  care.  What  was  a  figure  to 
him  in  comparison  with  the  flesh-pots  of  Paris ! 

One  of  the  best  of  these  pictorial  satires  is 
Roubaud's  sketch  of  Gautier.  It  has  a  teasing 
quality,  it  is  diabolically  fascinating.  It  shows 
how  great  an  art  caricature  is  in  the  hands  of  a 
master. 

But  the  highest  virtue  of  a  good  new  book 
is  that  it  usually  sends  the  reader  back  to  a 
good  old  book.  One  can  hardly  spend  much 
time  upon  Renduel ;  he  will  remember  that 
Gautier  has  described  that  period  when  hero- 
worship  was  in  the  air,  when  the  sap  of  a  new 
life  circulated  everywhere,  and  when  he  him- 
self was  one  of  many  loyal  and  enthusiastic 
youths  who  bowed  the  head  at  mention  of  Vic- 
tor Hugo's  name.  The  reader  will  remember, 
too,  that  Gautier  was  conspicuous  in  that  band 
of  Romanticists  who  helped  to  make  Hemani 
a  success  the  night  of  its  first  presentation. 
Gautier  believed  that  to  be  the  great  event  of 
his  life.  He  loved  to  talk  about  it,  dream 
about  it,  write  of  it. 

There  was  a  world  of  good  fellowship  among 


196    CONCERNING  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

the  young  artists,  sculptors,  and  poets  of  that 
day.  They  took  real  pleasure  in  shouting  Ho- 
sanna  to  Victor  Hugo  and  to  one  another. 
Even  Zola,  the  Unsentimental,  speaks  of  ma 
tristesse  as  he  reviews  that  delightful  past.  He 
cannot  remember  it,  to  be  sure,  but  he  has 
read  about  it.  He  thinks  ill  of  the  present  as 
he  compares  the  present  with  'those  dead 
years.'  Writers  then  belonged  to  a  sort  of 
heroic  brotherhood.  They  went  out  like  sol- 
diers to  conquer  their  literary  liberties.  They 
were  kings  of  the  Paris  streets.  *  But  we,' 
says  Zola  in  a  pensive  strain,  *we  live  like 
wolves  each  in  his  hole.'  I  do  not  know  how 
true  a  description  this  is  of  modern  French  lit- 
erary society,  but  it  is  not  difficult  to  make 
one's  self  think  that  those  other  days  were  the 
days  of  magnificent  friendships  between  young 
men  of  genius.  It  certainly  was  a  more  bril- 
liant time  than  ours.  It  was  flamboyant,  to 
use  one  of  Gautier's  favorite  words. 

Youth  was  responsible  for  much  of  the  en- 
thusiasm which  obtained  among  the  champions 
of  artistic  liberty.  These  young  men  who  did 
honor  to  the  name  of  Hugo  were  actually 
young.  They  rejoiced  in  their  youth.  They 
flaunted  it,  so  to  speak,  in  the  faces  of  those 
who  were  without  it.  Gautier  says  that  young 
men  of  that  day  differed  in  one  respect  from 
young  men  of  this  day ;  modern  young  men 
are  generally  in  the  neighborhood  of  fifty  years 
of  age. 


CONCERNING  A  RED  WAISTCOAT    197 

Gautier  has  described  his  friends  and  com- 
rades most  felicitously.  All  were  boys,  and  all 
were  clever.  They  were  poor  and  they  were 
happy.  They  swore  by  Scott  and  Shakespeare, 
and  they  planned  great  futures  for  themselves. 

Take  for  an  example  Jules  Vabre,  who  owed 
his  reputation  to  a  certain  Essay  on  the  Incon- 
venience of  Conveniences.  You  will  search  the 
libraries  in  vain  for  this  treatise.  The  author 
did  not  finish  it.  He  did  not  even  commence 
it,  —  only  talked  about  it.  Jules  Vabre  had  a 
passion  for  Shakespeare,  and  wanted  to  trans- 
late him.  He  thought  of  Shakespeare  by  day 
and  dreamed  of  Shakespeare  by  night.  He 
stopped  people  in  the  street  to  ask  them  if  they 
had  read  Shakespeare. 

He  had  a  curious  theory  concerning  lan- 
guage. Jules  Vabre  would  not  have  said.  As  a 
man  thinks  so  is  he,  but.  As  a  man  drinks  so  is 
he.  According  to  Gautier' s  statement,  Vabre 
maintained  the  paradox  that  the  Latin  lan- 
guages needed  to  be  *  watered '  {arroser)  with 
wine,  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  languages  with 
beer.  Vabre  found  that  he  made  extraordinary 
progress  in  English  upon  stout  and  extra  stout. 
He  went  over  to  England  to  get  the  very  atmo- 
sphere of  Shakespeare.  There  he  continued 
for  some  time  regularly  *  watering '  his  language 
with  English  ale,  and  nourishing  his  body  with 
English  beef.  He  would  not  look  at  a  French 
newspaper,  nor  would   he  even  read  a  letter 


198    CONCERNING  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

from  home.  Finally  he  came  back  to  Paris, 
anglicized  to  his  very  galoshes.  Gautier  says 
that  when  they  met,  Vabre  gave  him  a  *  shake 
hand '  almost  energetic  enough  to  pull  the  arm 
from  the  shoulder.  He  spoke  with  so  strong 
an  English  accent  that  it  was  difficult  to  under- 
stand him ;  Vabre  had  almost  forgotten  his 
mother  tongue.  Gautier  congratulated  the  ex- 
ile upon  his  return,  and  said,  'My  dear  Jules 
Vabre,  in  order  to  translate  Shakespeare  it  is 
now  only  necessary  for  you  to  learn  French.' 

Gautier  laid  the  foundations  of  his  great  fame 
by  wearing  a  red  waistcoat  the  first  night  of 
Hemani.  All  the  young  men  were  fantastic 
in  those  days,  and  the  spirit  of  carnival  was  in 
the  whole  romantic  movement.  Gautier  was 
more  courageously  fantastic  than  other  young 
men.  His  costume  was  effective,  and  the  pub- 
lic never  forgot  him.  He  says  with  humorous 
resignation :  *  If  you  pronounce  the  name  of 
Th^ophile  Gautier  before  a  Philistine  who  has 
never  read  a  line  of  our  works,  the  Philistine 
knows  us,  and  remarks  with  a  satisfied  air,  "  Oh 
yes,  the  young  man  with  the  red  waistcoat  and 
the  long  hair."  .  .  .  Our  poems  are  forgotten, 
but  our  red  waistcoat  is  remembered.'  Gautier 
cheerfully  grants  that  when  everything  about 
him  has  faded  into  oblivion  this  gleam  of  light 
will  remain,  to  distinguish  him  from  literary 
contemporaries  whose  waistcoats  were  of  so- 
berer hue. 


CONCERNING   A   RED   WAISTCOAT    199 

The  chapter  in  his  Histoire  du  Romantisme 
in  which  Gautier  tells  how  he  went  to  the  tailor 
to  arrange  for  the  most  spectacular  feature  of 
his  costume  is  lively  and  amusing.  He  spread 
out  the  magnificent  piece  of  cherry  -  colored 
satin,  and  then  unfolded  his  design  for  a  *  pour- 
point,'  like  a  'Milan  cuirass.'  Says  Gautier, 
using  always  his  quaint  editorial  we,  *It  has 
been  said  that  we  know  a  great  many  words, 
but  we  don't  know  words  enough  to  express 
the  astonishment  of  our  tailor  when  we  lay  be- 
fore him  our  plan  for  a  waistcoat.'  The  man 
of  shears  had  doubts  as  to  his  customer's  san- 
ity. 

'Monsieur,'  he  exclaimed,  'this  is  not  the 
fashion ! ' 

'  It  will  be  the  fashion  when  we  have  worn 
the  waistcoat  once,'  was  Gautier's  reply.  And 
he  declares  that  he  delivered  the  answer  with  a 
self-possession  worthy  of  a  Brummel  or  'any 
other  celebrity  of  dandyism.' 

It  is  no  part  of  this  paper  to  describe  the 
innocently  absurd  and  good-naturedly  extrava- 
gant things  which  Gautier  and  his  companions 
did,  not  alone  the  first  night  of  Hemani,  but  at 
all  times  and  in  all  places.  They  unquestion- 
ably saw  to  it  that  Victor  Hugo  had  fair  play 
the  evening  of  February  25,  1830.  The  occa- 
sion was  an  historic  one,  and  they  with  their 
Merovingian  hair,  their  beards,  their  waistcoats, 
and  their  enthusiasm  helped  to  make  it  an  un- 
usually lively  and  picturesque  occasion. 


200    CONCERNING  A  RED   WAISTCOAT 

I  have  quoted  a  very  few  of  the  good  things 
which  one  may  read  in  Gautier's  Histoire  du 
Romantisme.  The  narrative  is  one  of  much 
sweetness  and  humor.  It  ought  to  be  trans- 
lated for  the  benefit  of  readers  who  know 
Gautier  chiefly  by  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin 
and  that  for  reasons  among  which  love  of  liter- 
ature is  perhaps  the  least  influential. 

It  is  pleasant  to  find  that  Renduel  confirms 
the  popular  view  of  Gautier's  character.  M. 
Jullien  says  that  Renduel  never  spoke  of  Gau- 
tier but  in  praise.  *  Quel  bon  gar^on ! '  he  used 
to  say.  '  Quel  brave  cceur ! '  M.  Jullien  has 
naturally  no  large  number  of  new  facts  to  give 
concerning  Gautier.  But  there  are  eight  or 
nine  letters  from  Gautier  to  Renduel  which 
will  be  read  with  pleasure,  especially  the  one  in 
which  the  poet  says  to  the  publisher,  *  Heaven 
preserve  you  from  historical  novels,  and  your 
eldest  child  from  the  smallpox.* 

Gautier  must  have  been  both  generous  and 
modest.  No  mere  egoist  could  have  been  so 
faithful  in  his  hero-worship  or  so  unpretentious 
in  his  allusions  to  himself.  One  has  only  to 
read  the  most  superficial  accounts  of  French 
literature  to  learn  how  universally  it  is  granted 
that  Gautier  had  skillful  command  of  that  lan- 
guage to  which  he  was  born.  Yet  he  himself 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  deserved  a  mas- 
ter's degree.  He  quotes  one  of  Goethe's  say- 
ings,—  a  saying  in  which  the  great  German 


CONCERNING  A  RED  WAISTCOAT    201 

poet  declares  that  after  the  practice  of  many 
arts  there  was  but  one  art  m  which  he  could  be 
said  to  excel,  namely,  the  art  of  writing  in  Ger- 
man ;  in  that  he  was  almost  a  master.  Then 
Gautier  exclaims,  'Would  that  we,  after  so 
many  years  of  labor,  had  become  almost  a  mas- 
ter of  the  art  of  writing  in  French !  But  such 
ambitions  are  not  for  us  ! ' 

Yet  they  were  for  him ;  and  it  is  a  satisfac- 
tion to  note  how  invariably  he  is  accounted,  by 
the  artists  in  literature,  an  eminent  man  among 
many  eminent  men  in  whose  touch  language 
was  plastic. 


STEVENSON:  THE  VAGABOND   AND 
THE   PHILOSOPHER 

A  CERTAIN  critic  said  of  Stevenson  that  he 
was  '  incurably  literary ; '  the  phrase  is  a  good 
one,  being  both  humorous  and  true.  There  is 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  such  efforts  as 
may  have  been  made  to  keep  him  in  the  path 
of  virtuous  respectability  failed.  Rather  than 
do  anything  Stevenson  preferred  to  loaf  and  to 
write  books.  And  he  early  learned  that  con- 
siderable loafing  is  necessary  if  one  expects  to 
become  a  writer.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  it 
is  true  that  only  lazy  people  are  fit  for  litera- 
ture. Nothing  is  so  fruitful  as  a  fine  gift  for 
idleness.  The  most  prolific  writers  have  been 
people  who  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do. 
Every  one  has  read  that  description  of  George 
Sand  in  her  latter  years,  *  an  old  lady  who  came 
out  into  the  garden  at  mid-day  in  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  or  wan- 
dered slowly  about.  So  she  remained  for  hours 
looking  about  her,  musing,  contemplating.  She 
was  gathering  impressions,  absorbing  the  uni- 
verse, steeping  herself  in  Nature ;  and  at  night 
she  would  give  all  this  forth  as  a  sort  of  emana- 


VAGABOND   AND   PHILOSOPHER      203 

tion.'  One  shudders  to  think  what  the  result 
might  have  been  if  instead  of  absorbing  the 
universe  George  Sand  had  done  something 
practical  during  those  hours.  But  the  Scotch- 
man was  not  like  George  Sand  in  any  particular 
that  I  know  of  save  in  his  perfect  willingness 
to  bask  in  the  sunshine  and  steep  himself  in 
Nature.  His  books  did  not  'emanate.'  The 
one  way  in  which  he  certainly  did  not  produce 
literature  was  by  improvisation.  George  Sand 
never  revised  her  work ;  it  might  almost  be  said 
that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  never  did  any- 
thing else. 

Of  his  method  we  know  this  much.  He 
himself  has  said  that  when  he  went  for  a  walk 
he  usually  carried  two  books  in  his  pocket,  one 
a  book  to  read,  the  other  a  note-book  in  which 
to  put  down  the  ideas  that  came  to  him.  This 
remark  has  undoubtedly  been  seized  upon  and 
treasured  in  the  memory  as  embodying  a  secret 
of  his  success.  Trusting  young  souls  have 
begun  to  walk  about  with  note-books  :  only  to 
learn  that  the  note-book  was  a  detail,  not  an 
essential,  in  the  process. 

He  who  writes  while  he  walks  cannot  write 
very  much,  but  he  may,  if  he  chooses,  write 
very  well.  He  may  turn  over  the  rubbish  of 
his  vocabulary  until  he  finds  some  exquisite  and 
perfect  word  with  which  to  bring  out  his  mean- 
mg.  This  word  need  not  be  unusual ;  and  if  it 
is  'exquisite'  then  exquisite  only  in  the  sense 


204  STEVENSON 

of  being  fitted  with  rare  exactness  to  the  idea. 
Stevenson  wrote  so  well  in  part  because  he 
wrote  so  deliberately.  He  knew  the  vulgarity 
of  haste,  especially  in  the  making  of  literature. 
He  knew  that  finish  counted  for  much,  per- 
haps for  half.  Has  he  not  been  reported  as 
saying  that  it  was  n't  worth  a  man's  while  to 
attempt  to  be  a  writer  unless  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  spend  a  day  if  the  need  were,  on  the 
turn  of  a  single  sentence.?  In  general  this 
means  the  sacrifice  of  earthly  reward ;  it  means 
that  a  man  must  work  for  love  and  let  the  ra- 
vens feed  him.  That  scriptural  source  has  been 
distinctly  unfruitful  in  these  latter  days,  and 
few  authors  are  willing  to  take  a  prophet's 
chances.     But  Stevenson  was  one  of  the  few. 

He  laid  the  foundations  of  his  reputation 
with  two  little  volumes  of  travel.  An  Inland 
Voyage  appeared  in  1878;  Travels  with  a 
Donkey  in  the  Cevennes,  in  1879.  These  books 
are  not  dry  chronicles  of  drier  facts.  They 
bear  much  the  same  relation  to  conventional 
accounts  of  travel  that  flowers  growing  in  a 
garden  bear  to  dried  plants  in  a  herbarium. 
They  are  the  most  friendly  and  urbane  things 
in  modern  English  literature.  They  have  been 
likened  to  Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey.  The 
criticism  would  be  better  if  one  were  able  to 
imagine  Stevenson  writing  the  adventure  of  the 
Jille  de  chambre,  or  could  conceive  of  Lawrence 
Sterne  writing  the  account  of  the  meeting  with 


VAGABOND   AND   PHILOSOPHER      205 

the  Plymouth  Brother.  *  And  if  ever  at  length, 
out  of  our  separate  and  sad  ways,  we  should  all 
come  together  into  one  common-house,  I  have 
a  hope  to  which  I  cling  dearly,  that  my  moun- 
tain Plymouth  Brother  will  hasten  to  shake 
hands  with  me  again.'  That  was  written 
twenty  years  ago  and  the  Brother  was  an  old 
man  then.  And  now  Stevenson  is  gone.  How 
impossible  it  is  not  to  wonder  whether  they 
have  yet  met  in  that '  one  common-house.'  *  He 
feared  to  intrude,  but  he  would  not  willingly 
forego  one  moment  of  my  society;  and  he 
seemed  never  weary  of  shaking  me  by  the 
hand.' 

The  Inland  Voyage  contains  passages  hardly 
to  be  matched  for  beauty.  Let  him  who  would 
be  convinced  read  the  description  of  the  forest 
Mormal,  that  forest  whose  breath  was  perfumed 
with  nothing  less  delicate  than  sweet  brier.  '  I 
wish  our  way  had  always  lain  among  woods,' 
says  Stevenson.  'Trees  are  the  most  civil 
society.' 

Stevenson's  traveling  companion  was  a  young 
English  baronet.  The  two  adventurers  pad- 
dled in  canoes  through  the  pleasant  rivers  and 
canals  of  Belgium  and  North  France.  They 
had  plenty  of  rain  and  a  variety  of  small  mis- 
adventures ;  but  they  also  had  sunshine,  fresh 
air,  and  experiences  among  the  people  of  the 
country  such  as  they  could  have  got  in  no  other 
way.     They  excited  not  a  little  wonder,  and 


2o6  STEVENSON 

the  common  opinion  was  that  they  were  doing 
the  journey  for  a  wager ;  there  seemed  to  be 
no  other  reason  why  two  respectable  gentle- 
men, not  poor,  should  work  so  hard  and  get  so 
wet. 

This  was  conceived  in  a  more  adventurous 
vein  than  appears  at  first  sight.  In  an  unsub- 
dued country  one  contends  with  beasts  and 
men  who  are  openly  hostUe.  But  when  one  is 
a  stranger  in  the  midst  of  civilization  and  meets 
civilization  at  its  back  door,  he  is  astonished 
to  find  how  little  removed  civilization  is  from 
downright  savagery.  Stevenson  and  his  com- 
panion learned  as  they  could  not  have  learned 
otherwise  how  great  deference  the  world  pays 
to  clothes.  Whether  your  heart  is  all  right 
turns  out  a  matter  of  minor  importance;  but — 
are  your  clothes  all  right  ?  If  so,  smiles,  and 
good  beds  at  respectable  inns ;  if  not,  a  lodging 
in  a  cow-shed  or  beneath  any  poor  roof  which 
suffices  to  keep  off  the  rain.  The  voyagers 
had  constantly  to  meet  the  accusation  of  being 
peddlers.  They  denied  it  and  were  suspected 
afresh  while  the  denial  was  on  their  lips.  The 
public  mind  was  singularly  alert  and  critical  on 
the  subject  of  peddlers. 

At  La  Fere,  '  of  Cursed  Memory,'  they  had 
a  rebuff  which  nearly  spoiled  their  tempers. 
They  arrived  in  a  rain.  It  was  the  finest  kind 
of  a  night  to  be  indoors  *  and  hear  the  rain  upon 
the  windows.*     They  were  told  of  a  famous 


VAGABOND  AND  PHILOSOPHER      207 

inn.  When  they  reached  the  carriage  entry 
'the  rattle  of  many  dishes  fell  upon  their  ears.' 
They  sighted  a  great  field  of  snowy  table-cloth, 
the  kitchen  glowed  like  a  forge.  They  made 
their  triumphal  entry,  *  a  pair  of  damp  rag-and- 
bone  men,  each  with  a  limp  India-rubber  bag 
upon  his  arm.'  Stevenson  declares  that  he 
never  had  a  sound  view  of  that  kitchen.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  culinary  paradise  'crowded 
with  the  snowy  caps  of  cookmen,  who  all  turned 
round  from  their  sauce-pans  and  looked  at  us 
with  surprise.'  But  the  landlady  —  a  flushed, 
angry  woman  full  of  affairs  —  there  was  no 
mistaking  her.  They  asked  for  beds  and  were 
told  to  find  beds  in  the  suburbs :  '  We  are  too 
busy  for  the  like  of  you ! '  They  said  they 
would  dine  then,  and  were  for  putting  down 
their  luggage.  The  landlady  made  a  run  at 
them  and  stamped  her  foot :  '  Out  with  you  — 
out  of  the  door,'  she  screeched. 

I  once  heard  a  young  Englishman  who  had 
been  drawn  into  some  altercation  at  a  continen- 
tal hotel  explain  a  discreet  movement  on  his 
•  own  part  by  saying  :  *  Now  a  French  cook  run- 
ning amuck  with  a  carving  knife  in  his  hand 
would  have  bean  a  nahsty  thing  to  meet,  you 
know.'  There  were  no  knives  in  this  case, 
only  a  woman's  tongue.  Stevenson  says  that 
he  does  n't  know  how  it  happened,  *  but  next 
moment  we  were  out  in  the  rain,  and  I  was 
cursing  before  the  carriage  entry  like  a  disaj>- 
pointed  mendicant.' 


2o8  STEVENSON 

*  It  *s  all  very  fine  to  talk  about  tramps  and 
morality.  Six  hours  of  police  surveillance 
(such  as  I  have  had)  or  one  brutal  rejection 
from  an  inn  door  change  your  views  upon  the 
subject,  like  a  course  of  lectures.  As  long  as 
you  keep  in  the  upper  regions,  with  all  the 
world  bowing  to  you  as  you  go,  social  arrange- 
ments have  a  very  handsome  air ;  but  once  get 
under  the  wheels  and  you  wish  society  were  at 
the  devil.  I  will  give  most  respectable  men  a- 
fortnight  of  such  a  life,  and  then  I  will  offer 
them  twopence  for  what  remains  of  their  moral- 
ity.' 

Stevenson  declares  that  he  could  have  set 
the  temple  of  Diana  on  fire  that  night  if  it  had 
been  handy.  'There  was  no  crime  complete 
enough  to  express  my  disapproval  of  human 
institutions.'  As  for  the  baronet,  he  was  horri- 
fied to  learn  that  he  had  been  taken  for  a  ped- 
dler again ;  and  he  registered  a  vow  before 
Heaven  never  to  be  uncivil  to  a  peddler.  But 
before  making  that  vow  he  particularized  a 
complaint  for  every  joint  in  the  landlady's 
body. 

To  read  An  Inland  Voyage  is  to  be  impressed 
anew  with  the  thought  that  some  men  are  born 
with  a  taste  for  vagabondage.  They  are  in- 
stinctively for  being  on  the  move.  Like  the 
author  of  that  book  they  travel  *  not  to  go  any 
where  but  to  go.'  If  they  behold  a  stage-coach 
or  a  railway  train  in  motion  they  heartily  wish 


VAGABOND   AND   PHILOSOPHER      209 

themselves  aboard.  They  are  homesick  when 
they  stop  at  home,  and  are  only  at  home  when 
they  are  on  the  move.  Talk  to  them  of  foreign 
lands  and  they  are  seized  with  unspeakable 
heart-ache  and  longing.  Stevenson  met  an 
omnibus  driver  in  a  Belgian  village  who  looked 
at  him  with  thirsty  eyes  because  he  was  able 
to  travel.  How  that  omnibus  driver  'longed 
to  be  somewhere  else  and  see  the  round  world 
before  he  died.'  'Here  I  am,'  said  he.  *I 
drive  to  the  station.  Well.  And  then  I  drive 
back  again  to  the  hotel.  And  so  on  every  day 
and  all  the  week  round.  My  God,  is  that  life  ? ' 
Stevenson  opined  that  this  man  had  in  him  the 
making  of  a  traveler  of  the  right  sort ;  he 
might  have  gone  to  Africa  or  to  the  Indies 
after  Drake.  *  But  it  is  an  evil  age  for  the  gip- 
sily  inclined  among  men.  He  who  can  sit 
squarest  on  a  three-legged  stool,  he  it  is  who 
has  the  wealth  and  glory.' 

In  his  Travels  with  a  Donkey  the  author  had 
no  companionship  but  such  as  the  donkey  af- 
forded; and  to  tell  the  truth  this  companion- 
ship was  almost  human  at  times.  He  learned 
to  love  the  quaint  little  beast  which  shared  his 
food  and  his  trials.  *  My  lady-friend '  he  calls 
her.  Modestine  was  her  name ;  '  she  was  pa- 
tient, elegant  in  form,  the  color  of  an  ideal 
mouse  and  inimitably  small'  She  gave  him 
trouble,  and  at  times  he  felt  hurt  and  was  dis- 
tant in  manner  towards  her.     Modestine  car- 


2IO  STEVENSON 

ried  the  luggage.  She  may  not  have  known 
that  R.  L.  Stevenson  wrote  books,  but  she 
knew  as  by  instinct  that  R.  L.  Stevenson  had 
never  driven  a  donkey.  She  wrought  her  will 
with  him,  that  is,  she  took  her  own  gait.  '  What 
that  pace  was  there  is  no  word  mean  enough  to 
describe;  it  was  something  as  much  slower 
than  a  walk  as  a  walk  is  slower  than  a  run.' 
He  must  belabor  her  incessantly.  It  was  an 
ignoble  toil,  and  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself 
besides,  for  he  remembered  her  sex.  'The 
sound  of  my  own  blows  sickened  me.  Once 
when  I  looked  at  her  she  had  a  faint  resem- 
blance to  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance  who  had 
formerly  loaded  me  with  kindness ;  and  this 
increased  my  horror  of  my  cruelty.' 

From  time  to  time  Modestine's  load  would 
topple  off.  The  villagers  were  delighted  with 
this  exhibition  and  laughed  appreciatively. 
*  Judge  if  I  was  hot ! '  says  Stevenson.  *  I  re- 
membered having  laughed  myself  when  I  had 
seen  good  men  struggling  with  adversity  in  the 
person  of  a  jack-ass,  and  the  recollection  filled 
me  with  penitence.  That  was  in  my  old  light 
days  before  this  trouble  came  upon  me.' 

He  had  a  sleeping-bag,  waterproof  without, 
blue  sheep's  wool  within,  and  in  this  portable 
house  he  passed  his  nights  afield.  Not  always 
by  choice,  as  witness  his  chapter  entitled  *A 
Camp  in  the  Dark.'  There  are  two  or  three 
pages  in  that  chapter  which  come  pretty  near 


VAGABOND  AND   PHILOSOPHER      211 

to  perfection,  —  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  per- 
fection in  literature.  I  don't  know  who  could 
wish  for  anything  better  than  the  paragraphs 
in  which  Stevenson  describes  falling  asleep  in 
the  tempest,  and  awaking  next  morning  to  see 
the  *  world  flooded  with  a  blue  light,  the  mother 
of  dawn.'  He  had  been  in  search  of  an  adven- 
ture all  his  life,  *a  pure  dispassionate  adventure, 
such  as  befell  early  and  heroic  voyagers,'  and 
he  thinks  that  he  realized  a  fraction  of  his  day- 
dreams when  that  morning  found  him,  an  in- 
land castaway,  *  as  strange  to  his  surroundings 
as  the  first  man  upon  the  earth.' 

Passages  like  these  indicate  Stevenson's  qual- 
ity. He  was  no  carpet-knight ;  he  had  the 
true  adventurer's  blood  in  his  veins.  He  and 
Drake  and  the  Belgian  omnibus-driver  should 
have  gone  to  the  Indies  together.  Better  still, 
the  omnibus  driver  should  have  gone  with 
Drake,  and  Stevenson  should  have  gone  with 
Amyas  Leigh.  They  say  that  Stevenson  trav- 
eled in  search  of  health.  Without  doubt ;  but 
think  how  he  would  have  traveled  if  he  had 
had  good  health.  And  one  has  strange  mental 
experiences  alone  with  the  stars.  That  came 
of  sleeping  in  the  fields  'where  God  keeps  an 
open  house.'  *I  thought  I  had  rediscovered 
one  of  those  truths  which  are  revealed  to  sav- 
ages and  hid  from  political  economists.' 

Much  as  he  gloried  in  his  solitude  he  'be- 
came aware  of  a  strange  lack ; '   for  he  was 


212  STEVENSON 

human.  And  he  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  'to 
Hve  out  of  doors  with  the  woman  a  man  loves 
is  of  all  lives  the  most  complete  and  free.'  It 
may  be  so.  Such  a  woman  would  need  to  be 
of  heroic  physical  mould,  and  there  is  danger 
that  she  would  turn  out  of  masculine  mould  as 
well.  Isopel  Berners  was  of  such  sort.  Isopel 
could  handle  her  clenched  fists  like  a  prize- 
fighter. She  was  magnificent  in  the  forest,  and 
never  so  perfectly  in  place  as  when  she  backed 
up  George  Borrow  in  his  fight  with  the  Flam- 
ing Tinman.  Having  been  in  the  habit  of  tak- 
ing her  own  part,  she  was  able  to  give  pertinent 
advice  at  a  critical  moment.  *  It 's  of  no  use 
flipping  at  the  Flaming  Tinman  with  your  left 
hand,'  she  said,  *  why  don't  you  use  your  right  ? ' 
Isopel  called  Borrow's  right  arm  *  Long  Mel- 
ford.'  And  when  the  Flaming  Tinman  got  his 
knock-down  blow  from  Borrow's  right,  Isopel 
exclaimed,  'Hurrah  for  Long  Melford;  there 
is  nothing  like  Long  Melford  for  shortness  all 
the  world  over ! ' 

But  what  an  embarrassing  personage  Miss 
Berners  would  have  been  transferred  from  the 
dingle  to  the  drawing-room  ;  nay,  how  impossi- 
ble it  is  to  think  of  that  athletic  young  goddess 
as  Miss  Berners !  The  distinctions  and  titles 
of  conventional  society  refuse  to  cling  even  to 
her  name.  I  wonder  how  Stevenson  would 
have  liked  Isopel  Berners. 

And  now  his  philosophy.      Yet    somehow 


VAGABOND  AND   PHILOSOPHER      213 

*  philosophy '  seems  a  big  word  for  so  unpreten- 
tious a  theory  of  life  as  his.  Stevenson  did  n't 
philosophize  much ;  he  was  content  to  live  and 
to  enjoy.  He  was  deliberate,  and  in  general 
he  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be  driven.  He 
resembled  an  admirable  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance who,  when  urged  to  get  something  done 
by  a  given  time,  usually  replied  that  '  time  was 
made  for  slaves.*  Stevenson  had  the  same 
feeling.  He  says :  *  Hurry  is  the  resource  of 
the  faithless.  When  a  man  can  trust  his  own 
heart  and  those  of  his  friends  to-morrow  is  as 
good  as  to-day.  And  if  he  die  in  the  mean 
while,  why,  then,  there  he  dies,  and  the  ques- 
tion is  solved.' 

You  think  this  a  poor  philosophy  ?  But  there 
must  be  all  kinds  of  philosophy ;  the  people  in 
the  world  are  not  run  into  one  mould  like  so 
much  candle-grease.  And  because  of  this,  his 
doctrine  of  Inaction  and  Postponement,  stem 
men  and  practical  women  have  frowned  upon 
Stevenson.  In  their  opinion  instead  of  being 
up  and  doing  he  consecrated  too  many  hours  to 
the  idleness  of  literature.  They  feel  towards 
him  as  Hawthorne  fancied  his  ancestor  the 
great  witch  judge  would  have  felt  towards  Mm. 
Hawthorne  imagines  that  ghostly  and  terrible 
ancestor  looking  down  upon  him  and  exclaim- 
ing with  infinite  scorn,  *A  writer  of  story- 
books. What  kind  of  employment  is  that  for 
an  immortal  soul } ' 


214  STEVENSON 

To  many  people  nothing  is  more  hateful 
than  this  willingness  to  hold  aloof  and  let 
things  drift.  That  any  human  being  should 
acquiesce  with  the  present  order  of  the  world 
appears  monstrous  to  these  earnest  souls.  An 
Indian  critic  once  called  Stevenson  *  a  faddling 
Hedonist.'  Stevenson  quotes  the  phrase  with 
obvious  amusement  and  without  attempting  to 
gainsay  its  accuracy. 

But  if  he  allowed  the  world  to  take  its  course 
he  expected  the  same  privilege.  He  wished 
neither  to  interfere  nor  to  be  interfered  with. 
And  he  was  a  most  cheerful  nonconformist 
withal.  He  says :  *  To  know  what  you  prefer 
instead  of  humbly  saying  amen  to  what  the 
world  tells  you  you  ought  to  prefer  is  to  have 
kept  your  soul  alive.'  Independence  and  op- 
timism are  vital  parts  of  his  unformulated  creed. 
He  hated  cynicism  and  sourness.  He  believed 
in  praise  of  one's  own  good  estate.  He  thought 
it  was  an  inspiriting  thing  to  hear  a  man  boast, 
—  *  so  long  as  he  boasts  of  what  he  really  has.* 
If  people  but  knew  this  they  would  boast  '  more 
freely  and  with  a  better  grace.' 

Stevenson  was  humorously  alive  to  the  old- 
fashioned  quality  of  his  doctrine  of  happiness 
and  content.  He  says  in  the  preface  to  an 
Inland  Voyage  that  although  the  book  *  runs  to 
considerably  over  a  hundred  pages,  it  contains 
not  a  single  reference  to  the  imbecility  of  God's 
universe,  nor  so  much  as  a  single  hint  that  I 


VAGABOND  AND   PHILOSOPHER      215 

could  have  made  a  better  one  myself  —  I  really 
do  not  know  where  my  head  can  have  been.' 
But  while  this  omission  will,  he  fears,  render 
his  book  '  philosophically  unimportant '  he  hopes 
that  'the  eccentricity  may  please  in  frivolous 
circles.' 

Stevenson  could  be  militant.  His  letter  on 
Father  Damien  shows  that.  But  there  was 
nothing  of  the  professional  reformer  about  him. 
He  had  no  hobby,  and  he  was  the  artist  first 
and  then  the  philanthropist.  This  is  right ; 
it  was  the  law  of  his  being.  Other  men  are 
better  equipped  to  do  the  work  of  humanity's 
city  missionaries  than  was  he.  Let  their  more 
rugged  health  and  less  sensitive  nerves  bear 
the  burden ;  his  poet's  mission  was  not  the  less 
important. 

The  remaining  point  I  have  to  note,  among 
a  number  which  might  be  noted,  is  his  firm 
grasp  of  this  idea :  that  whether  he  is  his 
brother's  keeper  or  not  he  is  at  all  events  his 
brother's  brother.  It  is  *  philosophy '  of  a  very 
good  sort  to  have  mastered  this  conception 
and  to  have  made  the  life  square  with  the 
theory.  This  doctrine  is  fashionable  just  now, 
and  thick  books  have  been  written  on  the  sub- 
ject, filled  with  wise  terms  and  arguments.  I 
don't  know  whether  Stevenson  bothered  his 
head  with  these  matters  from  a  scientific  point 
of  view  or  not,  but  there  are  many  illustrations 
of  his  interest.     Was  it  this  that  made  him  so 


2i6  STEVENSON 

gentle  in  his  unaffected  manly  way  ?  He  cer- 
tainly understood  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  well- 
to-do  member  of  society  to  get  any  idea  not 
wholly  distorted  of  the  feelings  and  motives  of 
the  lower  classes.  He  believed  that  certain 
virtues  resided  more  conspicuously  among  the 
poor  than  among  the  rich.  He  declared  that 
the  poor  were  more  charitably  disposed  than 
their  superiors  in  wealth.  *A  workman  or  a 
peddler  cannot  shutter  himself  off  from  his  less 
comfortable  neighbors.  If  he  treats  himself  to 
a  luxury  he  must  do  it  in  the  face  of  a  dozen 
who  cannot.  And  what  should  more  directly 
lead  to  charitable  thoughts  ? '  But  with  the 
advent  of  prosperity  a  man  becomes  incapable 
of  understanding  how  the  less  fortunate  live. 
Stevenson  likens  that  happy  individual  to  a 
man  going  up  in  a  balloon.  *  He  presently 
passes  through  a  zone  of  clouds  and  after  that 
merely  earthly  things  are  hidden  from  his  gaze. 
He  sees  nothing  but  the  heavenly  bodies,  all  in 
admirable  order  and  positively  as  good  as  new. 
He  finds  himself  surrounded  in  the  most  touch- 
ing manner  by  the  attentions  of  Providence, 
and  compares  himself  involuntarily  with  the 
lilies  and  the  sky-larks.  He  does  not  precisely 
sing,  of  course ;  but  then  he  looks  so  unassum- 
ing in  his  open  landau !  If  all  the  world  dined 
at  one  table  this  philosophy  would  meet  with 
some  rude  knocks.' 

In  the  three  years  since  Stevenson's  death 


VAGABOND   AND   PHILOSOPHER       217 

many  additions  have  been  made  to  the  body  of 
literature  by  him  and  about  him.  There  are 
letters,  finished  and  unfinished  novels,  and  re- 
collections by  the  heaping  handful.  Critics 
are  considerably  exercised  over  the  question 
whether  any,  or  all,  or  only  two  or  three  of  his 
books  are  to  last.  The  matter  has,  I  believe, 
been  definitely  decided  so  that  posterity,  what- 
ever other  responsibilities  it  has,  will  at  least 
not  have  that  one ;  and  anything  that  we  can 
do  to  relieve  the  future  of  its  burdens  is  altru- 
ism worthy  the  name. 

Stevenson  was  one  of  the  best  tempered 
men  that  ever  lived.  He  never  prated  about 
goodness,  but  was  unaffectedly  good  and  sunny- 
hearted  as  long  as  he  lived.  Of  how  many 
men  can  it  be  said,  as  it  can  be  said  of  him, 
that  he  was  sick  all  his  days  and  never  uttered 
a  whimper }  What  rare  health  of  mind  was 
this  which  went  with  such  poor  health  of  body ! 
I  've  known  men  to  complain  more  over  tooth- 
ache than  Stevenson  thought  it  worth  while  to 
do  with  death  staring  him  in  the  face.  He  did 
not,  like  Will  o'  the  Mill,  live  until  the  snow 
began  to  thicken  on  his  head.  He  never  knew 
that  which  we  call  middle  age. 

He  worked  harder  than  a  man  in  his  condi- 
tion should  have  done.  At  times  he  felt  the 
need  to  write  for  money ;  and  this  was  hostile 
to  his  theory  of  literature.  He  wrote  to  his 
friend  Colvin :  *  I  sometimes  sit  and  yearn  for 


2i8  STEVENSON 

anything  in  the  nature  of  an  income  that  would 
come  in  —  mine  has  all  got  to  be  gone  and 
fished  for  with  the  immortal  mind  of  man. 
What  I  want  is  an  income  that  really  comes  in 
of  itself  while  all  you  have  to  do  is  just  to 
blossom  and  exist  and  sit  on  chairs.' 

I  wish  he  might  have  had  it ;  I  can  think  of 
no  other  man  whose  indolence  would  have  been 
so  profitable  to  the  world. 


STEVENSON'S   ST.   IVES 

With  the  publication  of  5/.  Ives  the  cata- 
logue of  Stevenson's  important  writings  has 
closed.  In  truth  it  closed  several  years  ago,  — 
in  1 89 1,  to  be  exact,  — when  Catriona  was  pub- 
lished. Nothing  which  has  appeared  since  that 
date  can  modify  to  any  great  extent  the  best 
critical  estimate  of  his  novels.  Neither  Weir 
of  Hermiston  nor  St.  Ives  affects  the  matter. 
You  may  throw  them  into  the  scales  with  his 
other  works,  and  then  you  may  take  them  out ; 
beyond  a  mere  trembling  the  balance  is  not 
disturbed.  But  suppose  you  were  to  take  out 
Kidnapped,  or  Treasure  Island,  or  The  Master 
of  Ballantrae,  the  loss  would  be  felt  at  once 
and  seriously.  And  unless  he  has  left  behind 
him,  hidden  away  among  his  loose  papers,  some 
rare  and  perfect  sketch,  some  letter  to  posterity 
which  shall  be  to  his  reputation  what  Neil  Far- 
aday's lost  novel  in  The  Death  of  the  Lion 
might  have  been  to  his,  St.  Ives  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  epilogue. 

Stevenson's  death  and  the  publication  of  this 
last  effort  of  his  fine  genius  may  tend  to  draw 


220  STEVENSON 

away  a  measure  of  public  interest  from  that 
type  of  novel  which  he,  his  imitators,  and  his 
rivals  have  so  abundantly  produced.  This  may 
be  the  close  of  a  '  period '  such  as  we  read  about 
in  histories  of  literature. 

If  the  truth  be  told,  has  not  our  generation 
had  enough  of  duels,  hair-breadth  escapes,  post- 
chaises,  and  highwaymen,  mysterious  strangers 
muffled  in  great-coats,  and  pistols  which  always 
miss  fire  when  they  should  n't  ?  To  say  posi- 
tively that  we  Mve  done  with  all  this  might 
appear  extravagant  in  the  light  of  the  popular- 
ity of  certain  modern  heroic  novels.  But  it 
might  not  be  too  radical  a  view  if  one  were  to 
maintain  that  these  books  are  the  expression  of 
something  temporary  and  accidental,  that  they 
sustain  a  chronological  relation  to  modern  liter- 
ature rather  than  an  essential  one. 

Matthew  Arnold  spoke  of  Heine  as  a  sar- 
donic smile  on  the  face  of  the  Zeitgeist.  Let 
us  say  that  these  modern  stories  in  the  heroic 
vein  are  a  mere  heightening  of  color  on  the 
cheeks  of  that  interesting  young  lady,  the 
Genius  of  the  modem  novel  —  a  heightening  of 
color  on  the  cheeks,  for  the  color  comes  from 
without  and  not  from  within.  It  is  a  matter  of 
no  moment.  Artificial  red  does  no  harm  for 
once,  and  looks  well  under  gaslight. 

These  novels  of  adventure  which  we  buy  so 
cheerfully,  read  with  such  pleasure,  and  make 
such  a  good-natured  fuss   over,   are   for  the 


ST.   IVES  221 

greater  part  an  expression  of  something  alto- 
gether foreign  to  the  deeper  spirit  of  modern 
fiction.  Surely  the  true  modern  novel  is  the 
one  which  reflects  the  life  of  to-day.  And  life 
to-day  is  easy,  familiar,  rich  in  material  com- 
forts, and  on  the  whole  without  painfully  strik- 
ing contrasts  and  thrilling  episodes.  People 
have  enough  to  eat,  reasonable  liberty,  and  a 
degree  of  patience  with  one  another  which  sug- 
gests indifference.  A  man  may  shout  aloud  in 
the  market-place  the  most  revolutionary  opin- 
ions, and  hardly  be  taken  to  task  for  it ;  and 
then  on  the  other  hand  we  have  got  our  rulers 
pretty  well  under  control.  This  paragraph, 
however,  is  not  the  peroration  of  a  eulogy  upon 
•  'our  unrivaled  happiness.'  It  attempts  merely 
to  lay  stress  on  such  facts  as  these,  that  it  is 
not  now  possible  to  hang  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England  for  forgery,  as  was  done  in 
I  'jj'j  \  that  a  man  may  not  be  deprived  of  the 
custody  of  his  own  children  because  he  holds 
heterodox  religious  opinions,  as  happened  in 
1816.  There  is  widespread  toleration;  and 
civilization  in  the  sense  in  which  Ruskin  uses 
the  word  has  much  increased.  Now  it  is  possi- 
ble for  a  Jew  to  become  Prime  Minister,  and 
for  a  Roman  Catholic  to  become  England's 
Poet  Laureate. 

If,  then,  life  is  familiar,  comfortable,  unre- 

/strained,  and  easy,  as  it  certainly  seems  to  be, 

▼how  are  we  to  account  for  the  rise  of  this 


222  STEVENSON 

semihistoric,  heroic  literature?  It  is  almost 
grotesque,  the  contrast  between  the  books 
themselves  and  the  manner  in  which  they  are 
produced.  One  may  picture  the  incongruous 
elements  of  the  situation,  —  a  young  society 
man  going  up  to  his  suite  in  a  handsome  mod- 
ern apartment  house,  and  dictating  romance  to 
a  type-writer.  In  the  evening  he  dines  at  his 
club,  and  the  day  after  the  happy  launching  of 
his  novel  he  is  interviewed  by  the  representa- 
tive of  a  newspaper  syndicate,  to  whom  he  ex- 
plains his  literary  method,  while  the  interviewer 
makes  a  note  of  his  dress  and  a  comment  on 
the  decoration  of  his  mantelpiece. 

Surely  romance  written  in  this  way  —  and 
we  have  not  grossly  exaggerated  the  way  — 
bears  no  relation  to  modern  literature  other 
than  a  chronological  one.  The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda  and  A  Gentleman  of  France,  to  mention 
two  happy  and  pleasing  examples  of  this  type 
of  novel,  are  not  modern  in  the  sense  that  they 
express  any  deep  feeling  or  any  vital  character- 
istic of  to-day.  They  are  not  instinct  with  the 
spirit  of  the  times.  One  might  say  that  these 
stories  represent  the  novel  in  its  theatrical 
mood.  It  is  the  novel  masquerading.  Just 
as  a  respectable  bookkeeper  likes  to  go  into 
private  theatricals,  wear  a  wig  with  curls,  a 
slouch  hat  with  ostrich  feathers,  a  sword  and 
ruffles,  and  play  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  so  does 
the  novel  like  to  do  the  same.     The  day  after 


ST.  IVES  223 

the  performance  the  whole  artificial  equipment 
drops  away  and  disappears.  The  bookkeeper 
becomes  a  bookkeeper  once  more  and  a  natural 
man.  The  hour  before  the  footlights  has  done 
him  no  harm.  True,  he  forgot  his  lines  at  one 
place,  but  what  is  a  prompter  for  if  not  to  act 
in  such  an  emergency.?  Now  that  it  is  over 
the  affair  may  be  pronounced  a  success,  —  par- 
ticularly in  the  light  of  the  gratifying  statement 
that  a  clear  profit  has  been  realized  towards 
paying  for  the  new  organ. 

This  is  a  not  unfair  comparison  of  the  part 
played  by  these  books  in  modem  fiction.  The 
public  likes  them,  buys  them,  reads  them  ;  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  the  public  should  not. 
In  proportion  to  the  demand  for  color,  action, 
posturing,  and  excessive  gesticulation,  these 
books  have  a  financial  success ;  in  proportion 
to  the  conscientiousness  of  the  artist  who  cre- 
ates them  they  have  a  literary  vitality.  But 
they  bear  to  the  actual  modem  novel  a  relation 
not  unlike  that  which  The  Castle  of  Otranto 
bears  to  Tom  Jones,  —  making  allowance  of 
course  for  the  chronological  discrepancy. 

From  one  point  the  heroic  novel  is  a  protest 
against  the  commonplace  and  stupid  elements 
of  modem  life.  According  to  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  there  is  no  romance  left  in  us.  Life 
is  stale  and  flat ;  yet  even  Mr.  Harrison  would 
hardly  go  to  the  length  of  declaring  that  it  is 
also  commercially  unprofitable.     The  artificial 


224  STEVENSON 

apartment-house  romance  is  one  expression  of 
the  revolt  against  the  duller  elements  in  our 
civilization  ;  and  as  has  often  been  pointed  out, 
the  novel  of  psychological  horrors  is  another 
expression. 

There  are  a  few  men,  however,  whose  work 
is  not  accounted  for  by  saying  that  they  love 
theatrical  pomp  and  glitter  for  its  own  sake,  or 
that  they  write  fiction  as  a  protest  against  the 
times  in  which  they  live.  Stevenson  was  of 
this  number.  He  was  an  adventurer  by  inher- 
itance and  by  practice.  He  came  of  a  race  of 
adventurers,  adventurers  who  built  lighthouses 
and  fought  with  that  bold  outlaw,  the  Sea.  He 
himself  honestly  loved,  and  in  a  measure  lived, 
a  wild  life.  There  is  no  truer  touch  of  nature 
than  in  the  scene  where  St.  Ives  tells  the  boy 
Rowley  that  he  is  a  hunted  fugitive  with  a  price 
set  upon  his  head,  and  then  enjoys  the  tragic 
astonishment  depicted  in  the  lad's  face. 

Rowley  '  had  a  high  sense  of  romance  and  a 
secret  cultus  for  all  soldiers  and  criminals. 
His  traveling  library  consisted  of  a  chap-book 
life  of  Wallace,  and  some  sixpenny  parts  of  the 
Old  Bailey  Sessions  Papers  ;  .  .  .  and  the 
choice  depicts  his  character  to  a  hair.  You 
can  imagine  how  his  new  prospects  brightened 
on  a  boy  of  this  disposition.  To  be  the  servant 
and  companion  of  a  fugitive,  a  soldier,  and  a 
murderer  rolled  in  one  —  to  live  by  stratagems, 
disguises,  and  false  names,  in  an  atmosphere  of 


ST.  IVES  225 

midnight  and  mystery  so  thick  that  you  could 
cut  it  with  a  knife  —  was  really,  I  believe,  more 
dear  to  him  than  his  meals,  though  he  was  a 
great  trencher-man  and  something  of  a  glutton 
besides.  For  myself,  as  the  peg  by  which  all 
this  romantic  business  hung,  I  was  simply  idol- 
ized from  that  moment ;  and  he  would  rather 
have  sacrificed  his  hand  than  surrendered  the 
privilege  of  serving  me.' 

One  can  believe  that  Stevenson  was  a  boy 
with  tastes  and  ambitions  like  Rowley.  But 
for  that  matter  Rowley  stands  for  universal 
boy-nature. 

Criticism  of  St  Ives  becomes  both  easy  and 
difficult  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  we  know  so 
much  about  the  book  from  the  author's  point 
of  view.  He  wrote  it  in  trying  circumstances, 
and  never  completed  it ;  the  last  six  chapters 
are  from  the  pen  of  a  practiced  story-teller,  who 
follows  the  author's  known  scheme  of  events. 
Stevenson  was  almost  too  severe  in  his  com- 
ment upon  his  book.     He  says  of  St.  Ives :  — 

*  It  is  a  mere  tissue  of  adventures ;  the  cen- 
tral figure  not  very  well  or  very  sharply  drawn ; 
no  philosophy,  no  destiny,  to  it ;  some  of  the 
happenings  very  good  in  themselves,  I  believe, 
but  none  of  them  bildende,  none  of  them  con- 
structive, except  in  so  far  perhaps  as  they  make 
up  a  kind  of  sham  picture  of  the  time,  all  in 
italics,  and  all  out  of  drawing.  Here  and  there, 
I  think,  it  is  well  written ;  and  here  and  there 


226  STEVENSON 

it 's  not.  ...  If  it  has  a  merit  to  it,  I  should 
say  it  was  a  sort  of  deliberation  and  swing  to 
the  style,  which  seems  to  me  to  suit  the  mail- 
coaches  and  post-chaises  with  which  it  sounds 
all  through.     'T  is  my  most  prosaic  book.' 

One  must  remember  that  this  is  epistolary 
self-criticism,  and  that  it  is  hardly  to  be  looked 
upon  in  the  nature  of  an  *  advance  notice.'  Still 
more  confidential  and  epistolary  is  the  humor- 
ous and  reckless  affirmation  that  St.  Ives  is  '  a 
rudderless  hulk.'  '  It 's  a  pagoda,'  says  Steven- 
son in  a  letter  dated  September,  1 894, '  and  you 
can  just  feel  —  or  I  can  feel  —  that  it  might 
have  been  a  pleasant  story  if  it  had  only  been 
blessed  at  baptism.' 

He  had  to  rewrite  portions  of  it  in  conse- 
quence of  having  received  what  Dr.  Johnson 
would  have  called  *a  large  accession  of  new 
ideas.'  The  ideas  were  historical.  The  first 
five  chapters  describe  the  experiences  of  French 
prisoners  of  war  in  Edinburgh  Castle.  St. 
Ives  was  the  only  'gentleman'  among  them, 
the  only  man  with  ancestors  and  a  right  to  the 
*  particle.'  He  suffered  less  from  ill  treatment 
than  from  the  sense  of  being  made  ridiculous. 
The  prisoners  were  dressed  in  uniform,  — 
'jacket,  waistcoat,  and  trousers  of  a  sulphur  or 
mustard  yellow,  and  a  shirt  of  blue-and-white 
striped  cotton.'  St.  Ives  thought  that  'some 
malignant  genius  had  found  his  masterpiece  of 
irony  in  that  dress.'     So  much  is  made  of  this 


ST.   IVES  227 

point  that  one  reads  with  unusual  interest  the 
letter  in  which  Stevenson  bewails  his  'miser- 
able luck '  with  St.  Ives ;  for  he  was  halfway 
through  it  when  a  book,  which  he  had  ordered 
six  months  before,  arrived,  upsetting  all  his 
previous  notions  of  how  the  prisoners  were 
cared  for.  Now  he  must  change  the  thing 
from  top  to  bottom.  'How  could  I  have 
dreamed  the  French  prisoners  were  watched 
over  like  a  female  charity  school,  kept  in  a  gro- 
tesque livery,  and  shaved  twice  a  week } '  All 
his  points  had  been  made  on  the  idea  that  they 
were  'unshaved  and  clothed  anyhow.'  He 
welcomes  the  new  matter,  however,  in  spite  of 
the  labor  it  entails.  And  it  is  easy  to  see  how 
he  has  enriched  the  earlier  chapters  by  accen- 
tuating St.  Ives's  disgust  and  mortification  over 
his  hideous  dress  and  stubby  chin. 

The  book  has  a  light-hearted  note,  as  a  ro- 
mance of  the  road  should  have.  The  events 
take  place  in  1 8 1 3  ;  they  might  have  occurred 
fifty  or  seventy-five  years  earlier.  For  the 
book  lacks  that  convincing  something  which 
fastens  a  story  immovably  within  certain  chro- 
nological limits.  It  is  the  effect  which  Thomas 
Hardy  has  so  wonderfully  produced  in  that  lit- 
tle tale  describing  Napoleon's  night-time  visit 
to  the  coast  of  England ;  the  effect  which  Stev- 
enson himself  was  equally  happy  in  making 
when  he  wrote  the  piece  called  A  Lodging  for 
a  Night. 


228  STEVENSON 

St  Ives  has  plenty  of  good  romantic  stuff  in 
it,  though  on  the  whole  it  is  romance  of  the 
conventional  sort.  It  is  too  well  bred,  let  us 
say  too  observant  of  the  forms  and  customs 
which  one  has  learned  to  expect  in  a  novel  of 
the  road.  There  is  an  escape  from  the  castle 
in  the  sixth  chapter,  a  flight  in  the  darkness 
towards  the  cottage  of  the  lady-love  in  the 
seventh  chapter,  an  appeal  to  the  generosity  of 
the  lady-love's  aunt,  a  dragon  with  gold-rimmed 
eyeglasses,  in  the  ninth  chapter.  And  so  on. 
We  would  not  imply  that  all  this  is  lacking  in 
distinction,  but  it  seems  to  want  that  high  dis- 
tinction which  Stevenson  could  give  to  his 
work.  Ought  one  to  look  for  it  in  a  book  con- 
fessedly unsatisfactory  to  its  author,  and  a  book 
which  was  left  incomplete  ? 

There  is  a  pretty  account  of  the  first  meet- 
ing between  St.  Ives  and  Flora.  One  naturally 
compares  it  with  the  scene  in  which  David  Bal- 
four describes  his  sensations  and  emotions  when 
the  spell  of  Catriona's  beauty  came  upon  him. 
Says  David  :  — 

'There  is  no  greater  wonder  than  the  way 
the  face  of  a  young  woman  fits  in  a  man's 
mind  and  stays  there,  and  he  could  never  tell 
you  why ;  it  just  seems  it  was  the  thing  he 
wanted.' 

This  is  quite  perfect,  and  in  admirable  keep- 
ing with  the  genuine  simplicity  of  David's  char- 
acter :  — 


ST.   IVES  229 

'She  had  wonderful  bright  eyes  like  stars; 
.  .  .  and  whatever  was  the  cause,  I  stood  there 
staring  like  a  fool.' 

This  is  more  concise  than  St.  Ives's  descrip- 
tion of  Flora ;  but  St.  Ives  was  a  man  of  the 
world  who  had  read  books,  and  knew  how  to 
compare  the  young  Scotch  beauty  to  Diana :  — 

*As  I  saw  her  standing,  her  lips  parted,  a 
divine  trouble  in  her  eyes,  I  could  have  clapped 
my  hands  in  applause,  and  was  ready  to  acclaim 
her  a  genuine  daughter  of  the  winds.' 

The  account  of  the  meeting  with  Walter 
Scott  and  his  daughter  on  the  moors  does  not 
have  the  touch  of  reality  in  it  that  one  would 
like.  Here  was  an  opportunity,  however,  of 
the  author's  own  making. 

There  are  flashes  of  humor,  as  when  St. 
Ives  found  himself  locked  in  the  poultry-house 
'  alone  with  half  a  dozen  sitting  hens.  In  the 
twilight  of  the  place  all  fixed  their  eyes  on  me 
severely,  and  seemed  to  upbraid  me  with  some 
crying  impropriety.' 

There  are  sentences  in  which,  after  Steven- 
son's own  manner,  real  insight  is  combined 
with  felicitous  expression.  St.  Ives  is  com- 
menting upon  the  fact  that  he  has  done  a  thing 
which  most  men  learned  in  the  wisdom  of  this 
world  would  have  pronounced  absurd ;  he  has 
*  made  a  confidant  of  a  boy  in  his  teens  and 
positively  smelling  of  the  nursery.'  But  he  has 
no  cause  to  repent  it.     *  There  is  none  so  apt 


230  STEVENSON 

as  a  boy  to  be  the  adviser  of  any  man  in  diffi- 
culties like  mine.  To  the  beginnings  of  virile 
common  sense  he  adds  the  last  lights  of  the 
child's  imagination.' 

Men  have  been  known  to  thank  God  when 
certain  authors  died,  —  not  because  they  bore 
the  slightest  personal  ill-will,  but  because  they 
knew  that  as  long  as  the  authors  lived  nothing 
could  prevent  them  from  writing.  In  thinking 
of  Stevenson,  however,  one  cannot  tell  whether 
he  experiences  the  more  a  feeling  of  personal 
or  of  literary  loss,  whether  he  laments  chiefly 
the  man  or  the  author.  It  is  not  possible  to 
separate  the  various  cords  of  love,  admiration, 
and  gratitude  which  bind  us  to  this  man.  He 
had  a  multitude  of  friends.  He  appealed  to  a 
wider  audience  than  he  knew.  He  himself 
said  that  he  was  read  by  journalists,  by  his  fel- 
low novelists,  and  by  boys.  Envious  admira- 
tion might  prompt  a  less  successful  writer  to 
exclaim,  *  Well,  is  n't  that  enough  ? '  No,  for 
to  be  truly  blest  one  must  have  women  among 
one's  readers.  And  there  are  elect  ladies  not  a 
few  who  know  Stevenson's  novels ;  yet  it  is  a 
question  whether  he  has  reached  the  great 
mass  of  female  novel-readers.  Certainly  he  is 
not  well  known  in  that  circle  of  fashionable 
maidens  and  young  matrons  which  justly  prides 
itself  upon  an  acquaintance  with  Van  Bibber. 
And  we  can  hardly  think  he  is  a  familiar  name 
to  that  vast  and  not  fashionable  constituency 


ST.   IVES  231 

which  battens  upon  the  romances  of  Marie 
Corelli  under  the  impression  that  it  is  perusing 
literature,  while  he  offers  no  comfort  whatever 
to  that  type  of  reader  who  prefers  that  a  novel 
shall  be  filled  with  hard  thinking,  with  social 
riddles,  theological  problems,  and  *  sexual  theo- 
rems.' Stevenson  was  happy  with  his  journal- 
ists and  boys.  Among  all  modem  British  men 
of  letters  he- was  in  many  ways  the  most  highly 
blest ;  and  his  career  was  entirely  picturesque 
and  interesting.  Other  men  have  been  more 
talked  about,  but  the  one  thing  which  he  did 
not  lack  was  discriminating  praise  from  those 
who  sit  in  high  critical  places. 

He  was  prosperous,  too,  though  not  grossly 
prosperous.  It  is  no  new  fact  that  the  sales  of 
his  books  were  small  in  proportion  to  the  mag- 
nitude of  his  contemporary  fame.  People 
praised  him  tremendously,  but  paid  their  dollars 
for  entertainment  of  another  quality  than  that 
supplied  by  his  fine  gifts.  An  Inland  Voyage 
has  never  been  as  popular  as  Three  Men  in  a 
Boaty  nor  Treasure  Island  and  Kidnapped  as 
King  Solomons  Mines;  while  The  Black 
Arrow,  which  Mr.  Lang  does  not  like,  and 
Professor  Saintsbury  insists  is  *a  wonderfully 
good  story,'  has  not  met  a  wide  public  favor  at 
all.  Travels  with  a  Donkey,  which  came  out 
in  1879,  ^^d  o^^y  reached  its  sixth  English  edi- 
tion in  1887.  Perhaps  that  is  good  for  a  book 
so  entirely  virtuous  in  a  literary  way,  but  it  was 
not  a  success  to  keep  a  man  awake  nights. 


232  STEVENSON 

We  have  been  told  that  it  is  wrong  to  admire 
Jekyll  and  Hyde,  that  the  story  is  '  coarse,'  an 
*  outrage  upon  the  grand  allegories  of  the  same 
motive,'  and  several  other  things;  nay,  it  is 
even  hinted  that  this  popular  tale  is  evidence 
of  a  morbid  strain  in  the  author's  nature. 
Rather  than  dispute  the  point  it  is  a  temptation 
to  urge  upon  the  critic  that  he  is  not  radical 
enough,  for  in  Stevenson's  opinion  all  literature 
might  be  only  a  'morbid  secretion.' 

The  critics,  however,  agree  in  allowing  us  to 
admire  without  stint  those  smaller  works  in 
which  his  characteristic  gifts  displayed  them- 
selves at  the  best.  Thrawn  Janet  is  one  of 
these,  and  the  story  of  Tod  Lapraik,  told  by 
Andie  Dale  in  Catriona,  is  another.  Stevenson 
himself  declared  that  if  he  had  never  written 
anything  except  these  two  stories  he  would 
still  have  been  a  writer.  We  hope  that  there 
would  be  votes  cast  for  Will  o'  the  Mill,  which 
is  a  lovely  bit  of  literary  workmanship.  And 
there  are  a  dozen  besides  these. 

He  was  an  artist  of  undoubted  gifts,  but  he 
was  an  artist  in  small  literary  forms.  His 
longest  good  novels  are  after  all  little  books. 
When  he  attempted  a  large  canvas  he  seemed 
not  perfectly  in  command  of  his  materials, 
though  he  could  use  those  materials  as  they 
could  have  been  used  by  no  other  artist.  There 
is  nothing  in  his  books  akin  to  that  broad  and 
massive  treatment  which  may  be  felt  in  a  novel 


ST.   IVES  233 

like  Rhoda  Fleming  or  in  a  tragedy  like  Tess 
of  the  n  Urhervilles. 

Andrew  Lang  was  right  when  he  said  of 
Stevenson :  He  is  a  *  Little  Master,'  but  of  the 
Little  Masters  the  most  perfect  and  delightful. 


CAMBRIDGE,    MASSACHUSETTS,    U.    S.    A. 

BLECTROTYPED  AND   PRINTED   BY 

H.  O.   HOUGHTON   AND  CO. 


DATE  DUE 

GAYLORD 

rniNTCO  IN  U    S   A 

A     000  751  363 


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